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Maisie Derrick 


BY 

KATHARINE S. MACQUOID 


YORK 

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very ^vork in this series is published by arrafigement with the author 


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MAISIE DERRICK 


WORKS BY 

Katherine S. Macqijoid 

rUBLISHED IN THE 

INTERNATIONAL AND WESTMINSTER SERIES. 


NO. 

SERIES. 


crs. : 

61. 

Int. 

COSETTE, ... 

3 ^ 1 

10, 

« 

Elizabeth Morley, 

30 ' 

/f- 

« 

Haunted Fountain and 




Hetty’s Revenue, The, . 


I. 

(( 

Miss Eyon of Eyon Court, 

30 ' 


7. West. Old Courtyard, The, . 


MAISIE DERRICK 


BY 

KATHERINE S. MACQUOID 

AUTHOR OF 

“COSETTE,” “MISS EYON OF EYON COURT,” ETC. 





rtAR 18 m'‘ 



2.7>'i 7 to 


NEW YORK 

LOVELL, CORYELL & COMPANY 


PUBLISHERS 



Copyright, 1891, 

BY 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY. 


lA// rights reserved,^ 


TO THK MEMORV OF MV FRIEND 


MARGARET VELEY 


“ Go, Love, go — if needs it must be so — 

Go, as the sun goes down his western way 
At dying of the day, 

And all the earth is wrapped 
In shadows chill and grey. 

Go, Love, go — if needs it must be so — 

Go from my longing as the summer goes 
From many a garden close. 

And through the branches bare 
The wind of autumn blows. 

Go, Love, go — if needs it must be so-r- 
Go as the tide, that, sobbing, makes its moan, 

O’er sand and weedy stone, 

And yet is drawn perforce 
Unto the deep unknown. 

Go, Love, go — if needs it must be so — 

Summer and sun, and surges of the main, 

Ye cannot heed my pain ! 

Go, Love, go — if needs it must be so — 

But come, Love, come ! — O Love, come thus again I 
Come as they come. Love, going as they go 


MARGARET VELEY. 


/ 




CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 


PAGE 

I. 

A Walk, 

I 

II. 

Maisie’s Grandfather, .... 

. 12 

III. 

Luke Stanmore Makes up his Mind, 

. 20 

IV. 

Across the Channel, .... 

23 

V. 

A Rebuff, 

. 41 

VI. 

A Strange Request, .... 

4Q 

vir. 

Drusilla’s Journey to England, 

. 5 S 

VIII. 

Drusilla at Yardon, .... 

63 

IX. 

A Sparring Match, 

76 

X. 

A Letter, 

86 

XI. 

Stanmore Walks up the Hili., . 

• 63 

XII. 

First Impressions, 

102 

XIII. 

A Shock, 

. Ill 

XIV. 

Disillusion, 

. 120 

XV. 

Mr. Yardon Interferes, .... 

. 130 

XVI. 

“ Silence Gives Consent,” 

136 

xvri. 

Mr. Yardon is Troubled, .... 

% 

' . 148 

XVIII. 

The Captain and his Friend, 

154 

XIX. 

“You Must Not Flirt,” .... 

. 163 

XX. 

At the Manor House, .... 

174 

XXI. 

Figgsmarsh Has a Grievance, . 

. 183 

XXII. 

Mischief Brewing, 

iii 

I9I 


IV 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER 


PACE 

XXIII. 

The Tapestry Room, . . . 

. 201 

XXIV. 

A Meeting, 

208 

XXV. 

Drusilla’s Reflections, . . , 

. 217 

XXVI. 

An Interesting Interview, . . . . 

228 

xxvir. 

Harriet’s Fear, 

. 238 

XXVIII. 

A Revelation, ...... 

244 

XXIX. 

Drusilla’s Decision, 

. 258 

XXX. 

Plain-Speaking, 

268 

XXXT. 

The Day Before the Wedding, 

. 275 

XXXII. 

Drusilla’s Wedding Day, . . 

285 

XXXIIT. 

In a Swlss Village, 

. 294 

XXXIV. 

“Have I Come Too Late?” 

304 

XXXV. 

An Unexpected Visitor, . . , . 

. 316 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


CHAPTER I. 

A WALK. 

There had been mist since early morning; the 
far-off country was completely blotted out, the old 
gray church-tower that rose above the village at the 
foot of the hill had also disappeared ; only the bud- 
ding branches of the trees asserted themselves and 
showed like unsubstantial phantoms through the 
dull gray atmosphere. 

Now, at two o’clock, the mist was still thick in the 
village, but it had become less dense round Yardon 
Hall, which stood half-way up the lane that climbed 
steeply between the church and the common ; the 
windows on the north side of the old-fashioned 
house now gave a clear view of the common and its 
distant surroundings, but from those on its southern 
side the church-tower was only an indication, and 
the tops of the trees appeared without any sign of 
trunks below. 

The old house stood some way back from the lane, 
which, with its tall forest trees,*and hedges newly 
powdered with a tender green, made a pleasant 
avenue-like approach to the entrance gates, and to 


2 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


the long winding walk that led to the house; the 
gates were on the left of the lane as one climbed up 
from the village, the winding path within them had 
been newly graveled, and made a vivid contrast to 
the closely .packed shrubberies that bordered it; 
these were edged with stones half hidden by mossy 
saxifrage and other small-leaved plants; behind, the 
green edging primroses and late snowdrops, and the 
golden gleam of crocus blossom took away all mo- 
notony from the rich brown earth and the mass of 
evergreen foliage above it. 

A girl in a gray woolen gown was bending down 
while she gathered a handful of the snowdrops which 
had clustered out of sight at the foot of a huge rho- 
dodendron. 

“How lovely they are!’' she sighed with enjoy- 
ment ; then she stooped down again for a few of the 
blue-green blades which looked too pure and fresh to 
have forced their way through the mold. 

The girl rose, and walked to the house, looking at 
the flowers in her hand. Maisie Derrick was dark- 
eyed and dark-haired, yet there was a likeness be- 
tween her and the snowdrops. She looked exqui- 
sitely fresh and bright; her brown eyes sparkled, her 
clear, brown skin glowed, and as her lips parted into 
a smile of perfect content, her white and even teeth 
showed between them. Maisie was tall and erect, 
and she was well formed and very pleasant looking; 
she w^as not beautiful, yet there w^as in her face a 
special character that attracted notice, and made 
strangers ask who she w^as. 


A WALK. 


3 


It was this expression that likened her to the 
snowdrops; it seemed to say she might be deceived 
over and over again, but that she would go straight 
on, trusting and believing in everyone. She carried 
the snowdrops into the house and upstairs into a 
dainty-looking bedroom that faced southward. On 
the dressing-table a tiny basket filled with moss 
stood waiting for the flowers. 

Maisie put in the blossoms with a deft, yet care- 
less touch that made the flowers seem to be growing 
in the moss. Then she gave a look round the room, 
and came down the stairs and the broad stone steps 
outside the entrance; she crossed the desolate-look- 
ing graveled space in front of the house, and took 
her way along the winding shrubbery path until she 
reached the entrance gates. 

Maisie paused here, and looked down the village ; 
then, with another soft, contented sigh, she turned 
to the left and began to climb the hill to the com- 
mon. 

There was not much light and shade on the path, 
for the sun had at last pierced the mist, and, as the 
trees were leafless and not thickly planted, it shot 
down a warm golden glory on the yellow road ; its 
glare dazzled the eyes of a man who just now came 
in sight at the top of the hill, where the steep road 
seemed to touch a distant background of trees. 
Maisie saw him before he could make out who she 
was. 

Her face at first showed a sudden delight, and 
then the bright expression faded ; she looked timid, 


4 


MA/SIE DERRTCK. 


almost ill at ease. It was curious to note the 
opposite effects of this meeting in the two faces. 
The man's doubtful scrutiny of Maisie’s advancing 
figure altered in a second to joyful certainty, his pace 
quickened, his figure seemed to dilate, and a warm, 
expectant smile lighted up his handsome face, and 
parted his expressive lips. It was plain that these 
two were more than mere acquaintances, and that the 
man cared very much for the girl. It also seemed 
plain that Maisie shrank from showing pleasure at 
the meeting. 

“Good-morning.” He held her hand while he said, 
“How is Mr. Yardon?” 

“Quite well, thank yow. Were you coming to see 
us?” She half turned to go back to the Hall. 

“Yes,” he smiled, “I was going there, but why 
should I stop your walk? May not I go across the 
common with you, and then come back and have a 
talk with the Squire? Everything looks extra cheer- 
ful after that dreary morning mist.” 

“You know you must not call my grandfather 
Squire,” Maisie laughed, as she turned and walked 
up the hill, side by side with Mr. Stanmore. 

He was so tall that he bent down his head to lis- 
ten while she spoke, and, though she knew his face 
by heart, Maisie was thinking how remarkable it was. 

There was something eagle-like in the strong line 
of his profile ; his eyebrows were curved and dark, 
and, though his mouth was wide, it was well-shaped, 
and full of rapid changes of expression. A keen, 
flashing rapidity was perhaps the first reading one 


A IVAL/C. 


5 


took from his face, and the light springy step and 
careless grace of his movements fitted well with this 
idea of his character; but the piercing glance of his 
dark, deeply-set eyes, now fixed on Maisie with an 
ardent gaze beneath which hers drooped, indicated a 
grasp of intellect suited to some sound reasoner, and 
at once gave the impression of a man meant for 
success. 

Mr. Luke Stanmore was on the verge of life, he 
was six and twenty, a promising engineer, just now in- 
trusted with the making of a branch line of railway 
between the village of Figgsmarsh, at the bottom of 
the lane, and the thriving city of Blievedon, which, 
as all the world knows, is placed in one of the pleas- 
antest parts of southern England. 

Mr. Stanmore had com^to Figgsmarsh a total 
stranger, and, greatly to the surprise of the inhabi- 
tants, who in general took far more trouble about 
their neighbors' affairs than they ever took about 
their own, Mr. Stanmore had at once been invited to 
dine at Yardon Hall; the owner of which was con- 
sidered a misanthrope, even if he were not better 
suited for a lunatic asylum than to be owner of the 
only good house in the neighborhood, always, of 
course, excepting the Manor House in Wentworth 
Park. 

There was, indeed, the Vicarage at the foot of the 
hill, but that, the Figgsmarsh people argued, did not 
count. The clergyman and his family were bound to 
be friendly and sociable with their parishioners, but 
it was a burning shame and an irritation to the Figgs- 


6 


MAI SIR DERRICK, 


marsh mind that such a well-to-do house as Yprdon 
Hall might have proved itself, should be rendered 
useless for all hospitable purposes by the eccentric 
habits of its owner. 

There was no especial mystery about Mr. Yardon’s 
exclusiveness; every one in the village knew his 
story, or thought they did. He had been a banker 
in one of the great northern towns, and had retired 
early in life to a beautiful country home near the 
Lakes, though he kept up an interest in the bank; 
he had been fairly benevolent, though people said 
his good deeds sprang from his wife ; but he was con- 
sidered proud, reserved, and tyrannical. Till his 
wife died everything had prospered with Mr. Yar- 
don ; she must have been dearer to her undemon- 
strative husband thaiii^people thought, for at her 
death he sold his estates and went abroad. 

His daughter, an only child, had married before 
her mother’s death, and when Mr. Yardon suddenly 
returned to England, after many years of wandering, 
he found this daughter, Mrs. Derrick, in a lingering 
decline, and, in spite of the liberal settlement her 
father had made on her at her marriage, he found her 
living in a small house in London with only a couple 
of maids. 

Her marriage had displeased Mr. Yardon ; she had 
chosen for herself a Mr. Derrick, an interesting young 
cureite without a penny. It appeared that marriage 
had developed ambition in Mr. Derrick; his father- 
in-law had provided him with a small country living, 
and the young rector attended fairly well to his pa- 


A IVALK. 


1 


rochial duties, but he had a passion for orchids, and 
he also liked to ride and drive better horses than his 
neighbors did. His wife was known to be the only 
daughter of a rich man ; so Mr. Derrick was allowed 
to go on happily with these expensive hobbies. He 
disliked business, and had a habit of tearing up bills 
without looking at them ; but he had some good 
qualities. 

He was a kind and affectionate husband, and his 
wife did not dream of doubting his judgment on any 
matter, spiritual or temporal. A fall from one of his 
favorite horses broke his neck, and then his idolizing 
wife discovered, in the moment of her crushing sor- 
row, that her husband’s affairs were in utter confu- 
sion, and that he had died overwhelmed with debts. 
As Mr. Derrick had not kept any accounts, his widow 
was at the mercy of the numerous claimants, who 
were now as impatient for settlement as they had 
been previously indifferent. 

Perhaps the mental shock to Mrs. Derrick helped 
on a natural weakness of constitution; she at first 
refused to appeal to her father, who had not been 
heard of for nearly a year. The poor woman hoped 
by strict economy and self-sacrifice to keep the 
knowledge of her husband’s imprudence a secret, but 
she wrote at last when she felt that life was nearly 
over, and asked her father to come to her. 

The sight of him and the comforts with which he 
surrounded her revived her, and she lingered for 
some months after his return ; then she died, and left 
him th^ sole charge of her only child, his grand- 


8 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


daughter Maisie. Mr. Yardon settled down at Yar- 
don Hall with this girl of eighteen, and although 
Miss Derrick was by this time twenty, Mr. Stanmore 
was the first person who had been asked to the house. 

The Figgsmarsh people said that the young engi- 
neer was also eccentric ; he wore his hair longer than 
other young men did, and his clothes did not look 
as well-made as the vicar’s or the doctor’s did, yet he 
was evidently well-to-do. The impression he had 
created on the Figgsmarsh female mind was that of 
being always in a hurry; even when he came out of 
church he went along the path with long, swinging 
steps, looking neither to right nor to^ left, a stray lock 
of hair over his bright dark eyes, which were seem- 
ingly bent on some object far ahead. Everyone in 
Figgsmarsh could tell how the acquaintance had 
begun between the impulsive young man and the 
overbearing old one. There had been a quarrel ; 
Mr. Yardon had accused the engineer of trespassing 
on his land, which was nearly grazed by the line of 
the new railway, and Mr. Stanmore had had the best 
of the dispute, and had so completely proved him- 
self to be in the right, that Mr. Yardon, after being 
very rude, had called at the young engineer’s lodg- 
ings, had apologized, and had asked him to dinner. 
This was the Figgsmarsh version, but when Mr. Ver- 
non, the vicar, heard it from his sister, he laughed. 

‘‘My dear Auricula,” he said, ‘T am always sorry 
to contradict you, but I cannot fancy Mr. Yardon 
making an apology to any one.” 

There could be no doubt, however, that Mr, Yar- 


A WALK, 


9 


don liked Luke Stanmore ; the young fellow’s man- 
ner had taken his fancy, and. now, at the end of a few 
months, they were firm friends. 

The young couple in the lane had walked on, 
rather silently, till they reached the breezy common. 
A lark was singing high above them, and the sun- 
shine was gilding the faded bent, as well as the fresh 
green blades of grass that tried to blot the bent out 
of sight. 

Mr. Stanmore said suddenly: 

“You expect Miss Savvay to-day, do you not?” 

Maisie looked up brightly. 

“Yes; I can hardly say how much I am looking 
forward to her visit ; she is such a dear old friend, 
and there is no one like her.” 

“You prefer her to Miss Vernon, then?” 

Maisie felt uncomfortable ; she gave a swift, up- 
ward glance of inquiry, and discovered that Mr. 
Stanmore had an amused expression of inquiry on 
his lips. 

“It is so different, you see,” she said, as if she were 
excusing herself. “I have known Miss Savvay ever 
since I was a child, and she knew my mother long 
before that; Miss Vernon has only been here a few 
months, she did not come as soon as her brother 
did.” Maisie paused with a look of discontent; 
then, as her companion remained silent, she added 
quickly, and with the truthful look that made her so 
attractive, “Even if I had known Miss Vernon 
longer I do not think that we should have found 
much sympathy: she is modern and accustomed to 


lo 


MAlSIE DERRICK. 


society, and I am” — she hesitated — “well, I am shy 
and old-fashioned ; it is not likely Miss Vernon could 
care much for me; I am sadly behind the rest of the 
world.” 

She laughed, but there was a timid appeal in her 
eyes. 

Mr. Stanmore longed to say “You darling! ” but he 
had determined not to be premature in speaking 
openly to Maisie ; he knew by instinct that unless he 
meant to give serious offense to the master of the 
Hall, he must not make love to his granddaughter 
until he had asked leave to do so. 

“So much the better,” he said, and his smile 
soothed the girl’s doubting heart ; it was delightful 
to have the assurance that this new friend really 
sympathized with her. 

Stanmore swished nervously at a bare red black- 
berry arm that projected from the furze. 

“I wonder if your friend will care to inspect the 
new line of railway? Do you think she can walk as 
far as Beadon? I could explain its course to you 
both, but perhaps you would both be bored.” 

He said this with so little of his usual ease that 
Maisie was surprised. 

She wondered why Mr. Stanmore, who never 
seemed to care for the opinion of any one, should 
wish to please Miss Savvay. 

“I think she would like it very much,” she an- 
swered, and her calm, direct words set him at ease 
whik she went on; “Miss Savvay takes m especial 


A IVALA^. 


11 


interest in this part of the country — she is Captain 
Wentworth’s aunt.” 

“So I hear.” He looked grave again. “May I 
ask if Captain Wentworth is a friend of yours?” 

Maisie laughed out at this question. 

“I have never seen him. Captain Wentworth has 
been away for years ; he came back once or twice, it 
seems, but Miss Savvay says that for some years past 
he has sta3/ed on in India. The beautiful old house 
has been shut up, and is much the worse for it, I be- 
lieve. In her last letter Miss Savvay says her 
nephew is perhaps coming home to live at the 
Manor House.” 

Stanmore turned from her impatiently and looked 
down the lane. 

“I will call for you to-morrow afternoon, then,” he 
said ; “or shall I meet you and Miss Savvay on 
Beadon Hill?” 

“I think that will be best,” Maisie said. 

They had left the common and were crossing the 
road that separated it from the lane. A passing cloud 
made it seem as if they were entering into shadow, 
as they went down the road between the trees. 

“There is my grandfather at the gate,” the girl 
said. 

Luke Stanmore raised his hat, but Mr. Yardon did 
not seem to see him. 

Maisie felt suddenly dull and constrained ; she had 
become once more the stiff, shy creature she felt her- 
self to be when she was alone with her grandfather. 


CHAPTER II. 
maisie's grandfather. 

Once upon a time a new keeper was engaged to 
attend on the lions and tigers of a zoological gar- 
dens. 

The new attendant had first-rate testimonials, and 
his punctual attendance, and his care with the ani- 
mals, were warmly praised by the head-keeper when 
he made his rounds. The man had also proved him- 
self to be observant, for he had detected a weakness, 
hitherto unsuspected, in the eye of a valuable lioness. 
He was for three weeks in high favor. Then there 
came a change, not in care or attention to his duties 
— these were as unremitting as ever; the change was 
in the beasts themselves; they became sulky and irri- 
table ; the pet lioness actually refused her food and 
pined at the back of her den, while the lions and 
tigers growled and snarled till the new keeper felt 
more or less nervous of approaching them. 

This was not all: a young tigress who had hitherto 
been graceful and docile, with the caressing ways of 
a petted domestic cat, became suddenly dull and 
lethargic ; she moved about her den in the most 
commonplace manner, only rousing from her apathy 
to growl now and then at her new attendant, with 
whom she had at first been affectionate, and full of 
play. 


19 


MA/SWS GRANDFATHER, 


It was soon rumored that the new keeper wished 
to give up his post ; he complained that the beasts 
were bad tempered ; his life was not safe among them, 
he said. This accusation irritated his superiors, and 
the other keepers asserted that on the contrary the 
beasts were remarkably docile and good-tempered, 
and the man was reminded that he had himself ex- 
pressed this opinion at the beginning of his service. 

While the head-keeper sat lost in perplexity at this 
sudden change in the behavior of the animals, a 
man who was employed to work in the gardens 
asked leave to speak to him. 

“What is your business?” the worried official 
gruffly asked. 

The new-comer put his withered, cynical face on 
one side. 

“I guess, sir,” he said, “you’d like to know the 
meaning of this snarling and growling?” 

“Eh, what?” The head-keeper looked suspicious; 
a sudden idea came to him that an underhand plot 
against the welfare of the beasts was about to be 
revealed to him. 

“It lies in a nutshell, sir,” the wizen man went 
on. “Them beasts,” he jerked his thumb over his 
shoulder in the direction of their dens, “is dull, poor 
critturs, and that’s the long and short of it.” 

“Dull? I don’t follow you.” 

“Yes, sir, dull ; they walks on four legs, but what o* 
that? They’re uncommon like ourselves, ’cept that 
they eats their joints raw and we takes ours cooked. 
If you’ll call yourself to mind, sir, you’ll agree as 


MAISJ£ DERRltK, 


U 

there’s nothing more trying than dullness to such as 
can’t go about to amuse thayselves. Why, that there 
Peter, as you discharged on account of his being in 
liquor, you should just hev hearkened to Peter when 
he was a-sweepin’ out the lioness — I mean Susan, 
sir, the savage one this chap calls her. ‘Sukey,’ he 
used to sa}*, ‘my old gal Sukey, ain’t she a beauty 
now, eh Sukey, lass? Was she a-purring puss then, 
and a doodling old darling of a Suke?’ Bless you, 
sir, he’d go on with such a string of nonsense talk as 
you never hearkened to. He was just the same with 
the lions and tigers, too ; the beasts was never tired 
of listening to the chap, he spoke that pleasant to 
them ; as for the little tigress — the saucy beauty he 
called her — I’ve seen her, bless you, sir. I’ve seen hei 
roll about on her back and let him tickle her while 
she listened to his coaxing ways; he just knew ho^\ 
to amuse them dumb brutes, that was the whole p’int 
of it, and in course they showed him their best sides. 
Well, sir, you give Peter the sack, and comes in thi^ 
yere sober, correct party, and he talks to ’em — what 
talk he does, he ain’t got much of a tongue — for all 
the world as if the critters went on two legs; pre- 
cious dumb chap he is all round; he never wastes a 
word, not he. He grumbled at the poor brutes for 
growling and snarling? bless you, sir, that was only 
their way of swearing at the dullness.” 

“Why wasn’t I told this before? Perhaps Nash 
might learn to do better with them?” 

The answer came with great contempt. 


MaJS/£*S GRANDFA TllEK. 


15 

'‘You know better than that, sir. I take it feelings 
for dumb critters can’t be taught, sir. There’s them 
as can’t rest till they see the folks they lives with 
happy and bright-like, and there’s those as only wants 
to be pleased theirselves.” 

Now the influence of Mr. Yardon’s atmosphere on 
Maisie Derrick had been nearly related to that exer- 
cised by the silent keeper on the great carnivora. 

The warm-hearted, sensitive girl could not snarl or 
growl, but she drooped and languished for the affec- 
tion which had been lavished on her by her father and 
mother, by Miss Savvay, and by everyone who had 
known her. Maisie had always been shy and retir- 
ing, but she possessed a rare gift, the facult}^ of at- 
tracting love without seeking it. She had begun to 
study with the idea of teaching, before her grand- 
father’s return ; Mrs. Derrick had become a complete 
invalid, and the girl longed for power to increase her 
mother’s comforts; she had been encouraged in this 
idea by the old friend who was coming to-day to 
Yardon. This was her friend’s first visit since Maisie 
had gone to live with her grandfather, and the girl 
had been counting the hours to Miss Savvay’s ar- 
rival, she hungered so for love and kindness. 

Mr. Yardon seldom blamed his granddaughter, 
but the girl felt that he was utterly indifferent to her 
presence or her absence; even when he spoke he 
never looked at her, and Maisie believed that she 
owed this avoidance to a slight likeness to her father. 
This avoidance and her grandfather’s sternly repres- 


i6 


MAISiE DEkRTCK\ 


sive manner had, week by week, frozen up the girks 
frank, though timid nature. She was growing ner- 
vous and self-conscious, and Mr. Yardon was becom- 
ing deeply vexed by her silence and by the con- 
straint of her manner toward him. 

She blushed when she saw how stern he looked as 
he stood at the gate. She almost read his thoughts, 
and heard him say to himself : '‘Conceited creature ! 
always conscious of her own personality, and what 
others think of her; I must get rid of her, that’s the 
long and short of it ; the very sight of her puts me 
out of temper.” 

Mr. Stanmore, who lived too much in the open air 
to be troubled with irritable nerves, was not sensible 
of the mute antagonism of his companions. 

“Why did you not come and meet us, Squire?” he 
said; “it was delightful on the common.” 

Mr. Yardon looked at him repressively. 

“Captain Wentworth is the squire here, Stan- 
more; pray do not misapply titles. I have no wish 
to deprive Captain Wentworth of anything which he 
really possesses. Well, I won’t detain you ; you no 
doubt wish to prolong your walk.” 

He nodded, and seemed not to see Mr. Stan- 
more’s outstretched hand, but turned his back on the 
gate when Maisic had passed into the shrubbery 
walk. 

Mr. Yardon did not try to overtake the girl, and 
they walked back to the house in silence. The deli- 
cious flutter which had darkened Maisie’s eyes and 


MAlSiE'S GRANDFATHER, 


i7 


made them liquid with happiness was weighed down 
by her wonder at this change in her grandfather 
toward the engineer. 

“He has always asked Mr. Stanmore to come in; 
he did not even shake hands with him to-day. What 
can have happened ?“ 

Maisie had an uneasy consciousness that she was 
the cause of Mr. Yardon’s churlish behavior; it was 
a relief that, being at least two yards behind her, he 
could not see her guilty looks. 

The hall was so large that her grandfather had 
come in before she had time to reach the foot of the 
staircase. 

“I want-you in my study,” he said. 

His voice sounded rougher than usual; Maisie 
drew a deep breath, and felt as if she were going to 
have a tooth out. 

Mr. Yardon went into a room on the right of the 
hall, and seated himself behind a writing-table that 
faced the door by which Maisie had to enter; he also 
faced the fireplace, and at his back were two win- 
dows, so that while he sat in comparative shadow the 
light fell full on the girl’s face, as she stood before him. 

There was a likeness between them of expression 
rather than of feature; both faces expressed truth 
and also a power of reticence ; there was likeness 
enough to make them think in unison, and also there 
was an indication of qualities which would make 
confidence between them difficult, unless love 
brought it forth. 


i8 


MAISIE DERRICK^ 


As their eyes met, Maisie saw a stern look of dis- 
like in her grandfather’s. Indeed, just then Mr. Yar- 
don almost hated her; she had come in the way of 
all his plans and future projects; she even interfered 
with his solitary amusement, a chat with Mr. Stan- 
more. 

“Confound her!’’ he thought; “the fellow comes 
to see her now, not me, and I won’t play second fid- 
dle to anyone in my own house.’’ 

“Do you want me, grandfather?” Maisie had 
become so shy under his stern eyes, that one shoul- 
der insensibly rose higher than its fellow. 

“Yes.” Then in an angry tone: “Can’t you stand 
straight, girl? I do not wish Mr. Stanmbre to be 
invited by anyone but myself, Maisie ; I wish you 
to remember this, if you please.” 

Maisie flushed, hesitated, and then said in a shy 
voice : 

“I did not invite Mr. Stanmore, grandfather.” 

“That is a mere excuse. If girls go out to meet 
young men, the men consider themselves invited. I 
am not blaming Stanmore; the young fellow only 
did what was natural; I blame you. You should 
keep out of his way, Maisie; he — he does not care 
for you.” 

He had been sometimes uncourteous, but never so 
rude as this, and Maisie’s spirit rose at the taunt. 

“It does not signify about that.” She had raised 
her head, and was looking straight at him, and Mr. 
Yardon saw how very bright her eyes were, and how 


MAISIE'S GRAJVDFATUER, 


19 


dark they looked. “I met Mr. Stanmore, but he 
was on his way here to ask Miss Savvay and me to 
come and see the new line of railway to-morrow ; he 
has met Miss Savvay in London.” 

Mr. Yardon gave a grunt, but he did not answer; 
he took up a newspaper, and Maisie felt that she 
was dismissed. 


CHAPTER III. 

LUKE STANMORE MAKES UP HIS MIND. 

Luke Stanmore walked down the hill to his 
lodgings in the village ; he was half affronted, half 
amused, by Mr. Yardon’s uncourteous behavior. 

“He sees what I think of his granddaughter, and he 
does not like it. Well, I think he’ll have to like it.” 

He smiled, and then went on thinking of Maisie; 
she was still a puzzle to him, for he did not guess the 
extent of her shyness. 

She was sometimes so bright and animated, and 
then she would be as she had been just now — limp 
and dull, unable to join in the talk. 

While Mr. Stanmore pondered this contradiction, 
it occurred to him that Maisie only had this droop- 
ing aspect in Mr. Yardon’s presence. The thought 
jarred him ; he had keen perception when he gave it 
fair play, but he was apt to judge rapidly and hast- 
ily, and to abide by a first impression, though later 
on he would yield if he found himself to be wrong. 
He had decided that Mr. Yardon was excellent — a 
rough outside with a warm heart — and he could not 
at once lay the blame on his friend. Mr. Yardon 
must surely know Maisie better than he did, and 
there was perhaps a reason for his silence toward his 
granddaughter; perhaps she did not appreciate or 
understand the generous-hearted fellow. Well, he 
80 


LUKE STAN MU RE MAKES UP HIS MIND. 


21 


told himself, if matters went as he wished, he would 
soon set all straight between Maisie and her grand- 
father. 

It had not occurred to the new-comer — Mr. Stan- 
more had only been a few months in Figgsmarsh — 
to make inquiry as to the extent of Mr. Yardon’s 
popularity; he had been flattered by the man’s lik- 
ing for himself, and he' was therefore inclined to 
judge him favorably; had his landlady been less gar- 
rulous, Mr, Stanmore might perhaps have questioned 
her, but Mrs. Grieg had such a ready torrent of words 
whenever he saw her, that he avoided her ; his rooms 
were well-kept and comfortably furnished, and Mrs. 
Grieg was a good cook, but he often meditated a 
change of abode. 

The calm repose of Maisie’s manner was yet more 
delightful to him as an effect of contrast; Mrs. 
Grieg’s disjointed words clattered one against an- 
other like bits of broken china. 

He looked up when he reached the end of the 
steeply descending lane, and he felt a sort of disgust 
w^hen he saw his landlady’s trim little figure standing 
in her doorw^ay across the road. 

Mrs. Grieg did not wear a cap, and she thus 
show^ed the pointed shape of her small head wdth its 
shining braids of brown hair, still browm though she 
w^as nearly fifty. 

Something in the woman’s attitude — her skinny 
yellow face and throat, and her bright, bead-like 
eyes — reminded Mr. Stanmore of a tortoise, as she 
craned her neck forw^ard at the sound of wheels on 


22 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


the newly mended road that led to the railway sta- 
tion, and also formed a continuation of Hill Lane on 
the farther side of the High Street of Figgsmarsh. 
A fly with luggage outside was coming from the sta- 
tion ; it was a rare event, and Mrs. Grieg stared 
hard at the vehicle. 

A lady looked out of the fly window and nodded, 
and Mr. Stanmore raised his hat in answer to the 
greeting. Mrs. Grieg rubbed her lean hands, and a 
momentary gleam showed in her expressionless eyes. 

'‘I shall know who it is before anyone else does, 
though if it weren’t too unlikely Fd say it was a 
visitor for the Hall.” 

She admired her lodger’s tall figure as he came 
down the lane with an easy step that became still 
easier after he had returned the bow of the lady in 
the fly. 

He sighed with a sense of relief ; he felt sure that 
his old acquaintance would help him to see more of 
Maisie. 

Mrs. Grieg’s cackling voice roused him from this 
pleasant prospect. 

“Good-evening, sir; was that a friend of yours, sir, 
if I may ask? We do not often see a strange lady 
at Figgsmarsh.” 

Mr. Stanmore smiled. 

“I believe that lady was born at the Manor House.” 

‘‘You don’t say so, sir! To think of that, now! 
I wasn’t aware as Captain Wentworth had any ladies 
in hi3 family,” she went on glibly. ‘T beg pardon. 


LUKE STANMORE MAKES UP HIS MIND. 23 

sir, but you’ll remember I told you I came frdln 
Hoxter, noways a Figgsmarsh woman, sir, always and 
except as being the wife of a Figgsmarsh man ; and 
you see, sir, the property have come to Captain 
Wentworth years ago from his grandmother, he 
being a minor when old Mrs. Savvay died ; there’s 
those that say the old lady might have left it in bet- 
ter hands.” Mr. Stanmore frowned, and she went 
on at double-quick pace, feeling that her chance was 
a short one. “There’s no secret, sir, about' the cap- 
tain’s doings; he just stays abroad and takes all out 
of the place he can get, and they do say he don’t do 
nothing for no one.” 

But Mr. Stanmore was already near the top of 
the narrow staircase, and he had not heard the last 
half of Mrs. Grieg’s information. Some of her 
words, however, clung to him, and disturbed his 
reflections on Maisie Derrick. It must be said that 
when he was not thinking of his work, Mr. Stan- 
more’s thoughts had taken a habit of traveling in 
one direction only. 

He was not vain, and though he felt hopeful that 
she liked him, he did not think that Maisie was 
won; but, in spite of her reserve, the singular truth 
of her nature revealed itself, and the young engineer 
had felt sure while he talked to her that she was 
not a flirt*. He did not think she would be easily 
won, but till to-day he had seemed to have many 
chances in his favor. Mr. Yardon’s friendship and 
thQ absence of visitors at the Hall promised him a 


24 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


clear field ; as yet he had not met a fellow guest 
there ; the vicar had dined there once with him, but 
Mr. Vernon was evidently not on intimate terms 
with his host. I. like Stanmore had therefore felt 
that his success depended on his own power of 
winning Maisic’s love; he was so very happy in 
these brief meetings with her that he had been will- 
ing to prolong this delightful time. He had been 
almost sure, when they met in the lane, that the 
sight of him had called the deep glow into the 
girl’s sw^eet eyes; and till her manner changed so 
suddenly at the gate, he had begun to hope that 
the prize of her love w^as won ; this check had set 
him thinking, on his w^ay down the lane, as to 
wdiether he w'as wdse in delaying. Maisie might ex- 
pect him to speak; she might feel that he exposed 
her to remark by these meetings, wdiich had become 
frequent during the past fortnight; she might even 
at this moment be considering him a mere trifler. 

At this point of his meditation Mr. Stanmore had 
caught sight of the lady in the fly, and he had seen 
in her a w^ay out of his difficulty. 

Mrs. Grieg’s mention of Captain Wentw^orth had, 
how’ever, set a blot on the bright vision that had 
followed his bow^ to Miss Savvay. Maisie had said 
that the captain was coming home; arjd, as the 
captain w^as poor and overwhelmed with debts, Mr, 
Stanmore thought that he would certainly w^ant to 
marry a girl who had some money, yet who w^as 

a^cvistomecj to live in a quiet, unostentatiQiis wayj 


LUKE STANMORE MAKES UP HIS MIND, 25 

he would be charmed with Maisie, and, whether he 
loved her or not, he would certainly see the 
prudence of securing such a wife. 

Later on, while Stanmore sat lounging back in a 
low chair, the smoke wreaths that blotted out the 
corners of his room from his eyes no longer showed 
Maisie’s bright face; there came before him instead 
a vision of Captain Wentworth; he would no doubt 
prove to be fascinating; girls usually found army 
men fascinating, because the men believed in them- 
selves. Well, if Maisie preferred Captain Went- 
worth, it would be better for her to marry him. It 
was, however, one thing to say this, and quite an- 
other to accept it. The vision of Captain Wentworth, 
colored by Mrs, Grieg's comments, was not that of a 
man likely to make a good husband. He had, of 
course, seen a good deal of the world, and had not 
much affection to bestow on anyone; it was possible 
that this blase of the world was capable of marry- 
ing Maisie for the sake of her grandfather's money. 

Luke Stanmore thought it was better that a girl 
should have a small income, but he did not consider 
it necessary ; his parents had died early, but they 
had left enough to provide for their only child’s 
education and start in life; Stanmore’s own ability 
and determination had done the rest, helped by a 
certain charm of manner which had made him friends 
early in life. 

He was now six and twenty, and he felt in a 
position to marry, 


26 


MAI SI E DERRICK. 


Luke Stanmore’s creed was that if a man seeks 
for money in marriage, he must give up some more 
desirable quality; no man, he argued, had a right to 
expect perfection in a woman ; he could not hope 
to find a wife amiable and rich as well as beautiful 
and talented. He was not in love with himself, and 
he considered he had no right to expect as much in 
a wife as soine men might. His attachment to 
Maisie had formed itself so unconsciously, however, 
that he found he loved her before he had begun to 
analyze her qualities, and he now determined to lose 
no more time, or give anyone else a chance of 
winning the love he coveted for his own. As he sat 
leaning back he called up Maisie’s look when she 
met him in the lane. Her sweet dark eyes had been 
liquid with what he hoped was love ; he had never 
been able to decide on the real color of Maisie’s 
eyes — it seemed to vary in varying degrees of light ; 
he only knew that the eyes were dark, and yet full 
of color, as they looked at him under the rebellious 
clusters of brown wavy hair that the wind scattered 
over her broad forehead. Either the rich brown 
color of her hair, or her clear brown skin, or both 
together, always reminded Stanmore of bright 
autumn tints; a bunch of ripe hazel nuts, or of 
scarlet berries, the golden bronze of the brake, 
brilliant bilberry leaves, and gleams of golden lichen, 
seemed suited to match with Maisie, only that the 
fresh daintiness that characterized her gave the girl 
. ^ sparkle ^11 her own, a sparkle more akin to spring, 


LUKE STAKMORE MAKES UP II IS MIND. 27 

“There is no other girl in the world for me/* Mr. 
Stanmore stretched out his hand, refilled his pipe, 
and began to think again. 

Before he slept he determined that, although he 
might not find to-morrow the opportunity he 
sought, yet he would make Maisie clearly under- 
stand that he was in earnest. 


CHAPTER IV. 

ACROSS THE CHANNEL. 

Across the Channel and some way farther south, 
instead of mist and leafless trees, the meadows were 
sprinkled with white narcissus blossoms and yellow 
asphodel, the green slopes were gay with many- 
colored lilies, and the out-of-the-way nooks were 
fragrant with pale violets and delicate primulas. 

A belt of flowers of all hues girdled in the little 
town of Sentis, and the English travelers who 
passed through it on their way to the south 
marveled at the lavish beauty around them, and 
sometimes left their carriages and helped themselves 
to nosegays. At the further end of Sentis, just out- 
side the town, there is a point where three valleys 
open on to the road, revealing far-off mountains. 
At the end of one valley there is a shining glacier 
that seems to touch the sky ; the ground slopes 
away from the road on either side, and shows 
tempting hollows gay with flowers, and paths lead- 
ing in various ways to the wooded valleys. 

On the left of the road opposite, beside one of 
the flowery hollows, stood a cottage, built partly of 
stone, partly of logs; it had an air of comfort in the 
absence of litter outside; there were four small 
windows with green shutter-blinds; these were now 
closed to exclude the great heat of the sun. 


ACROSS THE CHAAWEL 


29 


A carriage full of travelers came along the road, 
disturbing the stillness of the place. It went at a 
rapid rate, as if the travelers it carried hoped to 
escape the burning sunshine by mere speed ; they 
had evidently been gathering flowers, for a huge 
basket beside one of the occupants was laden with 
blossoms, and she held a white umbrella over the 
fading blooms. The travelers did not notice the 
cottage as they went quickly by, but from behind 
the green sun-shutters two bright dark eyes laughed 
merrily as the carriage passed. The girl who 
laughed was alone — a lithe, slender creature with a 
small head ; a profusion of rich fair hair fell loosely 
over her shoulders, for she had been brushing it 
when the noise of the carriage-wheels drew her to the 
window; she stood watching till the travelers 
vanished into the valley on the left ; her long dark 
eyes were half closed ; her rich, pouting lips were 
parted in laughter, and her chin was supported 
between her thumb and finger. She looked like a 
fawn or some mischievous sprite capable of casting 
a spell over the unconscious travelers, who had been 
so near her a while ago. 

‘AVell,” she said to herself, ‘'those are English 
people; I feel that I shall not like the English, they 
take so much trouble always. I would not trouble 
about wretched weeds if I had the good fortune to 
ride in a carriage.” She closed her eyes, showing 
long brown eye-lashes resting on her cheeks. “Ah ! 
perhaps I shall have a carriage of my own some 
day.” She opened her eyes, and there was a look 


30 


MAI SIR DERRICK. 


of gladness in them as if they had just seen some- 
thing pleasant. “I am curious,” her thoughts went 
on ; “it seems like the play-acting I saw at Cannes 
years ago — so many things have happened to me 
since mother died; poor mother! she was always 
grumbling because life was dull; she would have 
enjoyed getting so many letters as I have had this 
week, and she would have liked to see this English- 
man.” 

She put down the brush and began skillfully to 
twist her soft, abundant hair into a thick rope ; she 
rolled this round and round the back of her head, 
her long fingers setting here a comb and there a pin 
till her golden headdress seemed created by magic: — 
a smooth contrast to the ruffled waves of hair above 
her fair forehead. If Drusilla Lescure had lived in 
a northern climate she would have had a dazzlingly 
fair skin, but although her mother had always been 
watchful over the girl’s beauty, she had not been 
able to keep Drusilla completely out of the sun- 
shine, and there was a tinge of gold on her face 
which perhaps added to its fascination and to the 
glow of her dark eyes. 

The girl put away her brush and comb and pulled 
off the cotton jacket over which she had brushed her 
hair; she had a slender, graceful figure, dressed 
simply in black soft stuff ; her full round throat 
looked Avhite against this, but her hands did not 
follow suit ; they were golden brown against the 
cuffs of her morning gown. 

Drusilla took up a cracked hand-mirror and looked 


ACROSS THE CJELXA'EL 3 ^ 

at lierself ; she made a grimace, and her brown eye- 
brows met in a frown. 

“I would not wear black if I were going to stay 
here; it makes me look ordinary. If it was not that 
I fear to shock the Englishman, I would have put 
on my blue frock to-day.” She stopped and opened 
a drawer of the old brass-handled armoire near her 
bed ; a glow of blue like that of wild hyacinths in a 
copse showed in the opening. Drusilla touched the 
stuff lovingly and sighed; she closed the drawer and 
shook her head. “No, I am absurd, the English are 
all formalists; if this agent saw me in a colored 
frock he would be sure to write to his employer that 
I was wanting in respect to my mother. Poor 
mother! she was often cross, but I wish she was 
here to advise me ; she was very wise ; she used to 
say girls must be silent, not too ready to talk. Ah, 
it was easy for mother to behave in the best way; 
she knew life, she had been among gentlemen and 
ladies, she knew what to say and what to do; why 
did she hate everybody, I wonder, and shut herself 
up here alone with me. I don’t believe any girl 
was ever so shut up as I have been ; I wonder if the 
Englishman knows more about me than I know 
about myself.” 

She went to the window and looked out ; at some 
distance a figure was coming along the white road, 
and at the first glance Dmsilla felt sure it was the 
Englishman. Drusilla considered that she had been 
deprived of the pleasure that other girls had ; she 
had never been allowed to join in village fHcs or 


32 


hlAlSIE DERRICh\ 


dances; her motlier had watched over her like a 
jailer ever since the one episode in her young life 
from which all this seclusion dated ; it happened 
when she was about thirteen and while she was still 
a day pupil at the eonvent at Sentis. 

One day her mother told her to paek up her best 
clothes, as she was going with her on a journey. 

Drusilla had not yet forgotten the delight of that 
journey, or of the two days that followed when they 
reached Cannes. There was a performance of 
marionnettes the day after their arrival, and the 
good-natured woman of the house asked leave to 
take Drusilla to see it. It was the happiest time 
the girl had ever known ; the brilliant lights, the 
brilliant dresses, the little performers, the excite- 
ment of the applause and the music bewitched 
Drusilla, and when she returned with flushed cheeks 
and her dark eyes shining like stars, her mother 
stared at her with wonder. She had not before 
realized how beautiful a creature her daughter was 
becoming. She had refused to tell Drusilla the 
reason of this journey; but the girl felt sure that 
she had been allowed to go to the marionette theater 
in order that her mother might be rid of her. 

The next morning Madame Lescure told the girl 
that she was going out to see a friend, and that 
Drusilla was to stay indoors till she came back. 
Drusilla had not been able to sleep, and she still felt 
restless from excitement. As soon as she was sure 
that her mother was out of sight, she crept softh" 
downstairs, opened the house door, and stood look- 


ACJ^OSS THE CHANNEL 


33 


ing at the people who passed up and down the 
street : she saw that almost everyone looked at her 
admiringly, but they were mostly work-people, and 
they did not linger. 

At last a gentleman came up the street ; he was 
very well dressed, and Drusilla looked at him to see 
if he was handsome; no, he was plain and rather 
stout, but he smiled at her. The girl returned his 
smile in the most enchanting manner, and he stood 
still before her. 

“What is your name?“ he said, “you are a 
stranger here, I am sure.“ He said this in English; 
Drusilla felt glad that she was able to answer him. 

“Yes,” she said simply; “I am Drusilla Lescure.” 

“A strange name,” he said, and he wrote it down 
on his wristband with a little gold pencil. 

He asked her age, and with whom she was staying. 

“I am thirteen, I live with ” 

And that was the end of her adventure. Her 
mother seemed to spring out of the ground, pushed 
the gentleman aside, and pulled Drusilla into the 
house. 

“Pack your clothes at once, disobedient child,” 
she said ; “we must go home to-night.” 

It was a cruel disappointment, and her mother 
made it worse by telling her on their journey home 
that but for her misconduct she had meant to spend 
several days in Cannes. 

Drusilla had not forgotten this adventure ; she had 
grown taller, and her figure had developed, and 
she knew that she was still more beautiful than 


34 


MAISIE derrick:. 


she was at thirteen, but since that journey she had 
been far less happy, owing to her mother's incessant 
watchfulness. She had been sent as a boarder to 
the convent when Madame Lescure’s health failed, 
and she could no longer take the girl to and fro; 
even in her last illness the dying woman insisted on 
keeping Drusilla beside her, although one of the 
convent sisters came to nurse their pupil’s mother. 

Madame Lescure had died not quite a week ago, 
and had been buried only yesterday, but Drusilla 
had not yet found time in which to enjoy her free- 
dom. The Sentis lawyer had come three times to 
her; he had brought her two letters from England, 
he had sent her stuff to make a black gown, and he 
had told her she was to help the seamstress he 
brought with him in making her mourning. 

Drusilla was careful to see that she was well fitted, 
but. beyond this she spent her time in fingering 
the stuff, softer and finer than any her mother had 
given her; and in trying on and adjusting to her per- 
fect satisfaction a large black hat which the lawyer 
had sent her, and which suited her admirably. 

Besides these engrossing occupations, she had 
also been obliged to write two letters. 

It must be owned that the sisters had taught her 
to write a fine clear hand, and to speak French and 
English correctly ; her mother had made a point of 
her learning English, and as there were two English 
sisters in the convent, Drusilla had acquired a fairly 
pure accent and could speak easily; but the writing 
those two English letters had been a hard task, and 


ACROSS THE CHANNEL, 35 

she had torn up several copies before she succeeded 
in pleasing herself. 

The first letter was an answer to one from Mr. 
Yardon, who announced himself as an old friend of 
her father, and offered her a temporary home at his 
own house in England. 

The second letter v/as a notification of the time 
when she would have to be ready to leave Sentis. 
Yesterday she had received a few words saying that 
the gentleman who was appointed by Mr. Yardon to 
escort Miss Lescure to England would call on her 
the next day. These occupations had scarcely given 
her time in which to realize her freedom. 

Drusillahad dreamed all night of the pleasure that 
lay before her in this change of life and of scene; 
she had pictured to herself that the rich old man — 
she felt sure that Mr. Yardon must be rich and old — 
would have some male friend, young and handsome, 
who would at once become her slave ; she should 
accept all his admiration and devotion — but the rest 
would depend on circumstances. Her mother had 
told her that if she were discreet she might marry a 
very wealthy husband, perhaps a titled one. The 
girl thought there was no fear that she should throw 
herself away. 

It was a disappointment to Drusilla to see that the 
coming visitor was not attractive looking, and when 
Victoire, the woman who had stayed on with her 
since her mother’s death, threw open the door and 
showed in Mr. Ray, Drusilla thought he looked ugly. 
He v/as short and stout and dark; his eyes were his 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


best feature, but they were too black and eager to 
please the girl. 

He made her a low bow, and then his admiring 
glance raised him in her opinion. 

“I come on behalf of Mr. Yardon,” he said. “You 
understand English, I believe, Miss Lescure?” 

She smiled, and the prettiest of dimples showed 
in her cheek. 

Mr. Ray felt a little confused by the dazzling 
beauty of this young girl. His wife, a matter-of- 
fact, plain woman, was alw^lys much better dressed, 
so far as stuffs went, than was the girl before him — 
he knew that ; but he asked himself where this be- 
witching young creature could have learned the art of 
putting on her clothes so perfectly. Mr. Ray had 
been at a Parisian school in his boyhood, and Miss 
Lescure reminded him of those days of his first love. 
Mr. Yardon had said that his ward knew nothing of 
the world, and had been brought up in seclusion ; it 
was, however, difficult for the lawyer to believe that 
her easy grace of manner was inborn. 

Drusilla answered him in very pretty English ; she 
spoke easily, but with a slightly foreign accent, which 
added to the charm of her soft sweet voice as she 
said with a certain formality : 

“I hope you can tell me that Mr. Yardon is quite 
well?” 

“He is very well, thank you. Miss Lescure, and 
anxious to see you at the time you have namedf I 
believe you are willing to start to-niorrow?’' 


ACROSS THE CHANNEL. 


37 


“Yes, monsieur.” Drusilla looked still brighter. 
“I am ready at any time to go.” 

“Is there anything I can do for you? Can I pay 
any bills, give any message, or anything?” 

“Monsieur Adolphe, our Sentis lawyer, has paid 
for everything,” she said ; “but I thank you, mon- 
sieur, for your great kindness. I can give you no 
messages to deliver, because I have no friends.” 

She gave him a swift glance, and then sighed and 
cast down her eyes till they were completely veiled 
by her eye-lashes. 

Mr. Ray found himself so drawn into sympathy 
with the lovely girl by this frank avowal that he 
actually sighed in answer. 

“Ah,” he said, “that is perhaps fortunate. You 
will have the less regret in leaving Sentis. You will 
find plenty of friends in England, Miss Lescure, 
when you ^re at Yardon Hall.” 

Drusilla looked up. 

“Is the Hall quite away by itself, or are there 
other houses near it?” 

Mr. Ray, lawyer-like, had been watching for some 
revelation of character, and he smiled at the interest 
he saw in her dark eyes ; and then the observant law- 
yer was startled by her changed expression as she 
noted his smile; this young and inexperienced girl 
was actually on guard against his observation ! 

“vSo much the better,” he thought ; “she will get 
on better with Yardon for having a little tact,’’ 
AiQiidj he said ; 


38 


MAI S/E DERRICK. 


“Yardon Hall stands by itself, but it is near a large 
village.” 

Miss Lescure left off smiling. 

“But, in England, I believe, only poor people 
live in villages?” 

“That depends: there is always the clergyman’s 
family. Sometimes there are two clergymen, and 
unless the village is very small there is a doctor ” 

Miss Lescure was pouting, and frowning too. 

“I did not mean those sort of people,” she inter- 
rupted, with her pretty accent. “I meant real gen- 
tlemen and ladies.” 

Mr. Ray felt greatly amused ; he wondered what 
the Rev. Charles Vernon, the vicar of Figgsmarsh, 
and his sister. Miss Auricula, Avould think of Miss 
Lescure’s ideas. 

“There are several country houses at a little dis- 
tance, Miss Lescure; the nearest, the Manor House, 
is unfortunately shut up, as its owner is away with 
his regiment in India.” 

“He will come back, I suppose?” She looked smil- 
ing again. “Ah, but then,” she gave another swift 
glance at the lawyer, “I forgot, Mr. Yardon only asks 
me for a visit. So I may perhaps not stay long with 
him.” 

“That will be as you please, I fancy, Miss Lescure.” 

“Do you think so? There is still one question I 
have to ask you, monsieur. Mr. Yarrdon says he is 
my guardian, but my mother never told me about 
him. Was he a friend of my father’s?” She looked 
grave as she added, “I can hardly remcniber my 


ACRdSS THE CHANNEL. 


39 


father, he died when I was so little, and he was 
French. I hope Mr. Yardon can tell me who he was 
and all about him.'’ 

“No doubt,” said the lawyer. “Mr. Yardon told 
me that you are related to him on your father's 
side.” 

“On my father's side!” She checked herself, for 
she saw curiosity in the lawyer's eyes. Her mother 
had spoken to her once or twice in a vague, myste- 
rious way about her rich unknown friend, who would 
certainly take care of Drusilla; but Madame Les- 
cure had said “a friend of mine,” she had not said “a 
friend of your father's.” 

Mr. Ray rose to go, reluctantly; he had enjoyed 
his interview, and he would have liked to prolong it, 
but he had several arrangements to make, and above 
all he had to write to Mr. Yardon. 

“I must wish you good-day,” he said ; “I will order 
the carriage to be here at six o'clock to-morrow. I 
will say an revoir till then, Miss Lescure.” 

Drusilla stood thinking. 

“The country is pretty here,” she said, with a be- 
witching smile; “I should like to show it to you; if 
you will call again at six this evening, monsieur, we 
will take a walk and I will show you some charming 
views.” 

The lawyer bowed, with a thrill of pleasure. This 
journey to see Mr. Yardon's ward, which had seemed 
such a troublesome business, was likely to prove a 
most agreeable experience. Mr. Ray smiled on his 
way back to the hotel ; he ^Y^s wondering what Mrs, 


40 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


Ray would think of Miss Lescure’s invitation, which 
he told himself he would have been very rude to de- 
cline. “The better an Englishwoman is, the more 
narrow-minded she grows,” the cautious lawyer said 
to himself, by way of salve to his scruples; “unless 
the birds carry news I can hardly see that my pro- 
ceedings can travel beyond Sentis.” 


CHAPTER V. 

A REBUFF. 

Miss Savvay, Maisie, and Mj*. Stanmore were 
walking all three abreast. They were all silent, too ; 
Mr. Stanmore’s eyes were fixed on Maisie, but there 
was as much sadness in them as any other expres- 
sion. He was telling himself that he, who always 
gloried in seizing the opportunities of life at the right 
moment, had let slip the most precious chance that 
had ever come within his grasp. Miss Savvay had 
lingered behind for some minutes while she searched 
for a moss which she remembered to have found 
formerly on the common, and Maisie and Stanmore 
had been left together. The man’s love had become 
the more ardent for the restriction which the visi- 
tor’s presence laid on his glances. 

He thought Maisie had never looked so delightful 
as she did to-day, and he longed to gaze his fill, and 
when the chance of speaking came thus unexpect- 
edly, he had gone on feasting his eyes till they were 
no longer alone. 

‘AVhat a fool I was!” he thought; ”what a dull, 
dreamy fool !” 

Maisie walked on, her eyes fixed on the ground. 
She could not have told what she was thinking 
about — a vague trouble, that was half tormenting, 
half delicious, absorbed her; if she had a definite 


41 


42 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


thought it came as a slantwise wonder whether this 
walk which had made her feel so bewilderingly happy 
had not been very dull for her friend ; Miss Savvay 
had said little, and it was so rare for her to be silent. 

The brisk little lady was studying her compan- 
ions. Yesterday, something in Maisie's face, when, 
after the first greeting, she took her friend to the 
room prepared for her, had awakened Miss Savvay ’s 
suspicions. The dull, depressed tone, which had be- 
trayed itself in the girl’s letters, had made her old 
friend anxious to see her after this long separation. 
At first Miss Savvay’s own pride had stood in the 
way; she had gathered that Mr. Yardon was in no 
hurry to make her acquaintance, and she determined 
that instead of going to Yardon, Maisie should 
come to her for a long visit. But her grandfather 
told Maisie to refuse this invitation ; he soon after 
learned that Miss Savvay had been born at the Manor 
House, and was aunt to Captain Wentworth ; where- 
upon he severely rebuked the girl for not having at 
once told him her friend’s position in life ; he also 
wrote to the lady, and invited her to Yardon Hall. 
This civility had come too late. Miss Savvay having 
made arrangements to travel to Australia with a sick 
friend ; several months had therefore passed before 
she was able to visit Maisie. Miss Savvay had ex- 
pected to find the girl sad-eyed and melancholy, but 
as she watched her there was a shy smile, and now 
and then a sudden blushing glow of happiness, which 
the good spinster, with all due self-respect, coqld not 
lay entire claim to have inspired. 


A REBUFP'. 


4 . 


Later, while Miss Savvay arranged her cap before 
the glass, she nodded sagaciously at her own reflec- 
tion. 

‘‘There’s a man in the case,” she smiled rather 
cynically. ‘‘Well, I’ll not force Maisie’s confidence, 
she will tell me before long ; I can see she is as sweet 
and frank as ever.” 

No one having been asked to met the guest at din- 
ner, an omission udiich had disturbed Maisie, Miss 
Savvay talked to Mr. Yardon, and succeeded in im- 
pressing him with her good sense and her capability. 
When she and Maisie were alone the girl said : 

‘‘Shall you be too tired to take a walk to-morrow?” 
Something in her tone struck Miss Savvay, but 
she did not even look up as she answered : 

‘T’m not tired, dear child ; I believe I walk as well 
as ever. Where shall we go?” 

Maisie had gone to the window; she answered 
without turning her head : 

‘‘A friend of my grandfather’s, Mr. Stanmore, has 
offered to show us the new line of railway; it goes 
through very pretty country ; but do not go unless 
you like, perhaps it will only bore you.” 

Maisie turned round; her friend was looking at 
her with a contented smile, but the girl did not feel 
contented ; she knew that Miss Savvay saw the 
change in her, and that she would find out the cause 
of it. 

But when they said good-night the elder woman 
resolved not to ask questions — she would trust to her 
own powers of observation ; and while she brushed 


44 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


her scanty locks, her small dark face looked keenly 
intelligent. 

“There’s truth in the old saying about fools and 
angels,” she thought; “I do not set up to be an an- 
gel, but I know better than to act like a fool.” 

The silence which had possessed her to-day since 
they left the common — that silence which had ex- 
cited Maisie’s wonder — had been partly spent by 
Miss Savvay in congratulations on her own reticence, 
and also in guessing whether Mr. Stanmore had 
taken advantage of the chance which her moss-hunt 
had given him. The silence of the young pair in- 
clined her to think he had spoken, and that his an- 
swer had been favorable. The girl’s downcast, 
glowing looks were. Miss Savvay argued, conclusive 
on that point, but when her keen eyes searched Mr. 
Stanmore’s face, she saw that he looked troubled 
and impatient. 

Her nose had always a slight upward tilt, ar\d this 
seemed to rise with her thoughts. 

“He wants me out of the way; but, no, sir. He 
who will not when he may, must not have the way 
rolled for him later on ; I think it spoils a man, and 
lowers a woman, to take all the roughnesses out of 
the path. I am glad I came. Maisie will want me 
at such a time, dear child !” 

The spinster, who had never received an offer of 
marriage, felt as experienced as if she liad had a 
dozen. 

Mr. Stanmore broke the long silence. 


A REBUFF, 


45 


“Mr. Yardon is not at the gate, so I will go in and 
see him.“ 

“Yes.“ Maisie felt timid; she knew that her 
grandfather would have met them at the gates if he 
had wanted to see Mr. Stanmore. 

Miss Savvay was admiring the young fellow as he 
swung open one of the heavy gates and held it till 
she and Maisie had passed into the drive. 

“They will make a fine couple,” she thought ; she 
stooped to gather a snowdrop so that they might 
walk side by side. 

Maisie stood still; she resolved that her grand- 
father should not meet her walking with Mr. Stan- 
more. 

“Are you tired, dear Miss Savvay.^^” 

“Oh, no; I have done nothing tiring. Why did 
not Mr. Yardon come with us? I suppose he takes 
walks with you, Maisie?” 

“No; Mr. Stanmore sometimes walks with him, 
but he more often walks by himself.” 

“Do you ever ask him to take a walk with you, 
child?” Miss Savvay looked mischievous as she 
spoke. “ Men are such curious beings, they often 
do not know what they like, or what is really good 
for them, till it is put in their way.” 

Maisie laughed and looked shyly at Mr. Stanmore. 

“Do you think that is like my grandfather?” 

“Well, I fancy you spoil him, Miss Derrick; you 
let him get too much of his own way on all occa- 
sions.” He spoke quickly ; he had often wished to 


46 


MAl^lE DEkRlCk\ 


suggest this idea to Maisie. Maisie wondered what 
Mr. Stanmore would have thought of her grand- 
father’s speech yesterday ; she was conscious that it 
had made her shy during the walk. 

“You used to have your own way with me,” Miss 
Savvay said. “I had to go walking. with you when- 
ever you wanted me — I do not say’ against my will, 
but you had a will of your own in those days, 
Maisie.” 

The hall door stood open, but Mr. Yardon did not 
appear to welcome them. 

“I shall find your grandfather in his study, I 
fancy?” 

Mr. Stanmore usually took for granted that things 
would happen as he wished. 

“He is either there or in the garden,” Maisie said. 

She. felt ill at ease ; it would have been natural to 
go with Mr. Stanmore in search of her grandfather; 
a month ago she would have gone without a mis- 
giving; now she could not. 

“I shall see you again.” Mr. Stanmore smiled at 
them as he turned to the study. 

A very gruff “Come in” answered his knock; he 
went in, but Mr. Yardon continued to write without 
raising his eyes. 

“Good-evening! ” The young man felt surprised 
and annoyed at this reception. Mr. Yardon looked 
up, he nodded ; but he did not hold out his hand. 
“I’m not glad to see you,” he said bluntly. “I’m 
busy, and I have a good deal to plan and arrange.” 


A kEBUFP, 47 

He looked hard at his visitor and he saw that he 
was vexed. 

'‘Look here, Stanmore” — he tried to speak gen- 
ially — “this is Tuesday; come round and dine on 
Friday, and I shall be glad to see you ; the truth is 
I am much worried, and by that time I hope to have 
settled matters, and I’ll tell you all about it.’’ 

He held his hand out now in token of dismissal ; 
then, as if a second thought had come to him, he 
rose, opened the door for his visitor, and followed 
him into the hall. 

“Then it’s settled; you dine with me on Friday. 
I’ll — I’ll say good-by till then.’’ 

Mr. Stanmore was almost too angry to speak. 
He had said to himself he would not go away till he 
knew whether Maisie loved him, and now he was 
dismissed for three days; this eccentric old man 
was actually turning him out of the house. 

“I’m not sure that I can come on Friday,’’ he 
said gravely; “I may be called to town on busi- 
ness.’’ 

The elder man nodded, and looked so malicious 
that Stanmore felt puzzled. 

“At your age,’* Mr. Yardon said, “men often 
mistake shadow for substance; it matters little, 
however, after the mistake is once rectified. Good- 
evening to you.” 

Stanmore went slowly down the drive. He was 
rousing to a consciousness that some purpose was 
hidden under this dismissal. He remembered that 


48 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


he had expected to be asked in yesterday, and that 
Mr. Yardon had turned his back on him. What 
could be the meaning of this sudden change from 
the hospitable friendliness he had always found at 
the Hall? 

He looked back; Mr. Yardon was still standing 
at the door, with the same meaning expression 
lingering on his face. It seemed to Stanmore that 
he was being watched off the premises. 

He smiled; if all this was done to keep him away 
from Maisie, it would be easy enough, he thought, 
to meet her out of doors. That extraordinary sixth 
sense, which seems to be as variously dealt out to us 
as the lengths of antennae are to butterflies, had 
already assured Mr. Stanmore that he might look 
on Miss Savvay as a friend; she would not try to 
hinder him from telling his love to Maisie Derrick. 

This reflection soothed his vexation ; he whistled 
cheerfully as he went down the tree-bordered hill. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A STRANGE REQUEST. 

The room opposite Mr. Yardon’s study was the 
dining-room ; it looked out only on the drive be- 
cause the stable-yard lay beside it, blocked from 
view by a tall laurel hedge, that made a half circle 
from the farther angle of the dining-room, and 
followed the sweep of the drive to a second pair of 
rarely used carriage gates further down the lane. A 
carriage was a rare sight at the Hall, and when one 
came there was plenty of space for it to turn on the 
broad graveled sweep before the hall door. 

Perhaps from its limited outlook this room was 
dull, and as the drawing-room was chilly, Miss 
Savvay had established herself in the library, a small 
room behind Mr. Yardon’s study, and which could 
be made to communicate with the drawing-room by 
means of sliding doors. It had a door of its own, 
which led into the hall, and another door opening 
into the study. All these entrances were curtained, 
so that the room, with its bright fire in one corner, 
looked extremely cosy; the door curtains were dark 
red, but they were rich both in color and texture; 
the window curtains were a dark orange velvet, which 
made pleasant framing to the green lawn in front, 
and the clumps of rhododendrons right and left. 

In the middle of the room was a long leather- 


49 


maisie derrick. 


topped table, with books and writing materials. A 
portrait of a sweet-faced young woman, Maisie’s 
mother, hung over the corner-set mantle-shelf ; 
there were a few old blue and white cups and 
saucers, the fireplace was near the window, and the 
sides and the end of the room were covered with 
rows of books, except where the curtained doors 
came in the way. 

Miss Savvay was very sensible and practical, but 
she dearly loved a story; she had, however, to 
search for some time among Mr. Yardon's old- 
fashioned volumes before she could please herself. 
She could not find anything modern, so she helped 
herself to the Vicar of Wakefield,'’ and was soon 
deep in the first chapter. She had placed herself 
in a comfortable chair beside the fire, and some time 
ago Maisie had come in and had put a stool under 
her friend’s feet, a cushion behind her head, and a 
little table within reach. All at once Miss Savvay 
heard a strange sound, and she started from her 
book and looked round her. At the corner opposite 
the fireplace a bolt was being slowly undrawn be- 
hind the heavy curtain which hung over the door 
leading into Mr. Yardon’s study. 

Miss Savvay felt very curious. Maisie had told 
her this door was never opened, and the visitor 
Avondered why her host, if it were he, should not 
have come in by the door that led into the hall. 

Even after the noise of the bolt had stopped the 
door seemed to stick fast, and opened at last with a 
loud crack. Mr. Yardon’s face, when he appeared 


A STRANGE REQUEST. SI 

from behind the curtain, was very red from his 
exertions. 

“I am sorry to disturb you,” he said politely; 
“but I wanted to talk to you privately — just a little 
matter which need not go beyond ourselves, if you 
please.” 

He bowed, then he seated himself opposite to 
his visitor. 

Miss Savvay drew herself up. She felt affronted; 
she thought it was most extraordinary of Mr. 
Yardon to come in by this shut-up door, and he 
certainly ought to have knocked before he began to 
unfasten the bolt. 

“If I was nervous, Mr. Yardon,” she said, “you 
would have alarmed me. I fancied that door was 
never used.” 

“It is only used when I use it, madam. I 
apologize for the liberty I have taken, but I was 
not afraid of startling you. I can see you have 
plenty of nerve, and also, if I may say so, your 
share of good judgment.” He paused and looked 
at her intently. “I want you to help me, if you will 
be so good.” 

Miss Savvay was already deeply interested in 
watching the course of Maisie’s love story. Mr. 
Stanmore's manner had convinced her that he would 
not be contented till he knew his fate, and when 
Mr. Yardon asked for help she felt a sudden fear 
that this contradictory grandfather intended to put 
obstacles in the way of the young people. 

hesitate to begin,” he went on, “because \vhat I 


52 


MAI SI E DERRICK. 


have to say must sound to you so very inhospitable; 
but the fact is I am very much worried: I received 
a letter two days ago which told me to expect a 
visitor, a stranger to me, and a foreigner.’* 

“And you wish me to give up my rooms to this 
visitor? Why did you not write and put me off at 
once?’’ She smiled cheerfully at him. “I am sorry 
you have made such a trouble of it. I am ready to 
go at once.” 

There was no change in Mr. Yardon’s grave face, 
he only put out his hand to show that she had not 
reached his meaning. 

“You are very kind, but that I take as a matter 
of course from Miss Savvay. But, madam, allow 
me to say there are several guest-rooms here ; it was 
necessary that you should come here for two 
reasons. I have to place Maisie under your charge, 
and I have also to tell you why I must, for the 
present, send my granddaughter away from 
Yardon.” 

“Send Maisie away ” 

Miss Savvay checked herself. She saw Mr. 
Yardon’s lip curl at her want of calm. 

“I am obliged to have this visitor here for a time — 
I do not know for how long, circumstances will 
decide on that point ; but until I am sure that I can 
have this — this person and Maisie in the house 
together, I wish my granddaughter to be in safe 
keeping. I can only think of you, madam,” — he 
bowed, — “to whom I can trust Maisie; she is young, 
3he is supposed, whether rightfully or wrongfully, to 


A ST/^AXGE REQUEST. 


S3 


have expectations; she would be thought a catch 
by some designing people. I do not choose to send 
her to school. Will you give me this help?” He 
stopped and looked at her; then, before Miss 
Savvay could answer, he went on : ''Perhaps you 
will be good enough to take Maisie away to-morrow 
morning, and to keep her with you till I ask you 
both to come back to Yardon.” 

He got up from his chair and boweci again. 

"Very well, I will do as you ask,” after a pause. 
Miss Savvay said coldly. 

''Thank you ; the carriage will take you to the 
station at nine o’clcok.” 

Mr. Yardon went out at the door by which he had 
come in, and Miss Savvay heard him refasten the bolt. 

''What a tyrannical old boor!” she thought. 
"He must be doubtful if this visitor is a fit 
companion for Maisie, but it is most extraordinary 
behavior. Poor dear child !” 

The harsh grating of the bolt announced another 
visit from Mr. Yardon. 

"I beg your pardon, madam,” — he spoke as if he 
had been listening to her thoughts, — "I think I will 
get you to announce this arrangement to Maisie. 
She is gauche and so shy with me that I should 
not find it easy to explain myself ; you will perhaps 
say to her that a matter of business makes it neces- 
sary that she should go away with you till I send 
for her.” 

But Miss Savvay h^d recovered from her previous 
surprise. 


54 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


“You must excuse me,” she said, “but I prefer that 
you should tell Maisie yourself; she is of age, 
remember, and I am not her guardian; I have no 
authority over her.” 

He gave her a cynical look. 

“You have a greater power than authority; you 
must know that a woman will yield to influence far 
more easily than she will to reason; and if you had 
known Launcelot Derrick, Miss Savvay, you would 
not expect his daughter to listen to simple reason.” 

“1 call that a prejudice; it surprises me that you 
should take it for granted that a child is bound to 
inherit its father's faults; why should not Maisie 
resemble her mother? I see a great personal like- 
ness to her in that portrait.” 

Mr. Yardon’s lower lip was pushed up above its 
fellow. 

“You must be uncommonly fond of Maisie, 
madam. My daughter, Mrs. Derrick, was a lovely 
young woman ; she might have married anyone she 
pleased, and she married that poor creature.” 

“She married a clergyman, and he was well 
connected and well bred.” 

Mr. Yardon snapped his fingers — contradiction 
always sent away his self-control. 

“He was my son-in-law, madam, so I suppose I 
should know his points. Derrick never tried to 
please me or anyone but himself — he was a very 
poor creature, madam ; if my unfortunate child had 
made a better choice, she might have been alive 
now, Well; madam, you will confer an obligation 


A STRANGE REQUEST. 


SS 


on me if you explain my wishes to Maisie, and she 
will thank you for doing it/' he added significantly. 

“Perhaps so.” Miss Savvay spoke dryly. “Very 
well, I will speak to Maisie.” 

“Yes,” she said to herself when Mr. Yardon had 
gone away again, “I begin to understand the change 
in the girl, and I am not sorry to take her away 
from that old tyrant; she will get back her courage 
and her spirits when she is away from him, and the 
short separation will make Mr. Stanmore more ar- 
dent and anxious to take her away altogether.” 

Miss Savvay could not go back to the “Vicar of 
Wakefield.” She sat thinking; it seemed to her 
that if Maisie could meet Mr. Stanmore before they 
left Yardon the matter might be settled. “And 
then,” she nodded complacently, “if the young 
people are engaged, there will be nothing to hinder 
me from asking Mr. Stanmore to come over to 
Nappa.” 

Considering that Miss Savvay lacked any personal 
experience in the conduct of a courtship, it must be 
said that she showed some generalship in her plans. 

She met Maisie just before luncheon and settled 
to take an afternoon walk with her; it seemed 
better to defer giving Mr. Yardon’s message till 
they were safely out of the house. Pvliss Savvay 
had changed her opinion of iMaisie’s grandfather; 
she did not like him, but she shrank from him with 
more fear than dislike; when she recalled the 
determined look in his face this morning she 
repeated to herself that she was glad tQ take 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


S'^ 


!Maisie away. She remembered that Mr. Yardon 
had lived abroad for many years, and in her opinion 
no man who exiled himself from his own country for 
so long a period ever came back thinking exactly as 
he did when he went away — he might perhaps be 
capable of locking Maisie in her room if she did not 
obey his wishes. 

There is no saying how far the warm-hearted 
woman might have allowed her imagination to lead 
her; she was so sure to carry both liking and dislik- 
ing beyond a reasonable limit ; her swans were apt 
to prove geese, and her tiger often dwindled down 
to a much more tamable creature. And yet, mak- 
ing all due allowance for the power of Miss 
Savvay’s imagination, there seemed to be secret 
machinery at work on that afternoon which kept 
- Maisie within the garden gates. 

Mr. Vernon and his sister Miss Auricula came up 
from the vicarage to call on Mr. Yardon’s visitor. 
Miss Savvay saw plainly that the young vicar 
admired Maisie, and that Miss Auricula was dis- 
posed to patronize, until she learned that Miss Savvay 
belonged to the Manor House family; and then Miss 
Vernon became appropriately gushing, and, turning 
her back on Maisie, devoted herself to the visitor. 

At last the brother and sister went away, and Mr, 
Yardon asked Maisie to come with him to the 
library. 

He took down two volumes of an old county 
history, and showed Jier thi'ee passages of several 
pages each, 


A STRANGE REQUEST, 


57 


‘‘You have asked me more than once, Maisie, to 
give you something to do for me/’ He smiled un- 
pleasantly, the girl thought. “You will do me a 
service if you copy these out. I have to send them 
to a friend who wants the information, and I do not 
wish to lend him the books.” 

“Yes, grandfather.” Then she plucked up 
courage. “I suppose to-morrow will do?” she said; 
“I have promised to take a walk this afternoon 
with Miss Savvay.” 

Mr. Yardon smiled, but the girl felt that he was 
displeased. 

“I want this copying done to-day, if you please; 
I am sorry to disarrange your plans, but this is busi- 
ness. Make your copy as distinctly as possible — 
some of it may have to be printed from, if my 
friend should quote from it.” 

Miss Savvay came in and found Maisie alone and 
looking miserable before the big open books. 

“What is happening?” the girl said; “I have felt 
in a maze ever since I heard you refuse Miss 
Auricula’s invitation. I heard you say, ‘I am leav- 
ing to-morrow.’ What could you mean?” 

“That is just what I have come to tell you.” 

She took Maisie by the arm and seated her in a 
chair beside the fire. 

“I have a message to give you from your grand- 
father,” she said. 


CHAPTER VII. 

DRUSILLA’S journey to ENGLAND. 

Miss LescuRE and lier companion had traveled as 
quickdy as possible; but when they reached Paris 
Drusilla told Mr. Ray she was too tired to go any 
farther. 

‘T hope you will give me a day’s rest,” she said, 
”or I shall be ill when I get to Yardon Hall.”' 

She said this so frankly and sw'eetly that Mr. Ray 
felt obliged to yield. He said they would spend the 
next day quietly in Paris, although he had had Mr. 
Yardon ’s instructions not to halt anywhere on the 
journey. Secretly he was glad of the rest, and he 
promised himself a very pleasant day in Paris with 
his beautiful charge; he went to bed, and did not 
rouse till late next morning. 

When he reached t*he coffee-room of the hotel, he 
told a waiter that the lady would breakfast in her 
room. 

”I beg pardon, sir,” he answered, ”the lady break- 
fasted some. time ago; she then ordered a carriage, 
and she has gone out shopping; the deuwiselle de 
bur can has gone with her.” 

Mr. Ray looked annoyed ; he felt very much 
alarmed at the idea of Drusilla driving about Paris 
with a stranger. He asked where the carriage had 
been told to go ; the waiter said he believed the lady 


DRUSILL.VS JOURMEY TO ENGLAND. 59 

wished to visit several shops, and he did not think 
she could be back till past eleven. 

“In fact, sir” — the man smiled and shrugged his 
shoulders — “I should not be surprised if madame 
were to be even later. If monsieur will leave a mes- 
sage, I will give it madame when she returns.” 

But Mr. Ray preferred to wait; he was greatly 
perplexed. 

When he consented to stay a day in Paris, he knew 
that he had risked a reproof from Mr. Yardon; but 
he had planned out a very pleasant programme for 
himself and for Miss Lescure; he had ordered a pri- 
vate sitting-room, for he considered that Drusilla 
ought not to appear at a Paris table d'hote., and he 
had looked forward to an afternoon drive when the 
young lady had recovered from her fatigue, then to 
a charming tete-a-tite dinner, followed by a visit to 
the theater. It seemed to the lawyer that the thea- 
ter would be more of a treat to a girl who had never 
seen a great city than any amount of picture galler- 
ies or public buildings. And now Miss Lescure had 
defeated his plans. 

He was very much upset by this escapade ; and 
yet, as he paced up and down the street in front of 
the hotel, he told himself, from what he had seen of 
the girl, it was just the sort of thing that might have 
been expected. 

“She feels out of the cage, poor little thing, and 
she is determined to have a fling. I don’t fancy she 
will find much amusement at Yardon.” 

At one o’clock Miss Lescure had not come in, and 


6o 


MAISm DERRICK. 


Mr. Ray had become so much alarmed by her con- 
tinued absence that he resoh^ed to set the police 
on her track. He was going downstairs when he 
met Drusilla, looking radiant with pleasure. His 
anxious face told its own story — the girl’s natural 
grace gave an extra charm to her apology. When 
they reached their room she held out her hand and 
smiled. 

'‘You have been thinking me lost — ah, yes, is it 
not so?” 

She said this so sweetly that the lawyer could no 
more have scolded her than he could have flown ; he 
felt simply helpless under the eyes of this lovely 
creature ; it seemed to him that she was far more 
lovely than when he last saw her. What had she 
been doing to herself, he wondered? 

“Let us sit down,” the girl said. “I am veiy 
happy, but I am just a little tired, and I am ever so 
hungry, Mr. Ray; can we not have something to 
eat?” she said plaintively, in the pretty childish way 
that her companion found irresistible. 

He rang the bell and ordered luncheon, but when 
it was over Drusilla did not gratify her companion’s 
curiosity as to what she had been doing. 

“Perhaps. you will give orders about my parcels.” 
She spoke in a more languid tone than she had as 
yet used toward him. “1 expect several parcels, and 
they have to be paid for, if 3^011 please.” 

“Do you^know how much they will amount to?” 
he asked. 

She laughed, and showed her prett}^ even teeth. 


DRUSILLA'^ /OUAWRV TO EXGLAND, 


6r 


“I will give you tlie bills; I know nothing about 
money.” 

Then she went into her room and brought out a 
little embroidered bag, evidently a new purchase, 
from which she took a handful of bills and placed 
them on the table before Mr. Ray. 

“See,” she said carelessly, “they cannot amount to 
much ; I have not looked at them, but I only bought 
trifles till I had asked your leave. I want to stay 
another day, please ; I had no idea Paris was so 
charming; I have seen some gowns and bonnets 
which would exactly suit me.” 

Pie glanced over the bills, and while he added 
them up. Drusilla took off her hat. 

Mr. Ray was looking very serious at the sum 
total, but when he looked at his companion he 
stared in utter surprise. 

“Ah!” she laughed, “you like the change; you 
may thank yourself for it, Mr. Ray ; you told me a 
good deal about my guardian yesterday, and I am 
sure that he will prefer to see me like other ladies. 
I was like an uncouth country girl till I went to the 
hair-dresser' s.” 

“Pardon me,” he said; “you could never be un- 
couth ; but I can’t help regretting the loss of your 
beautiful hair.” 

Drusilla clapped her hands, and then laughed at 
him. 

“That is so like a man ; it does not follow because 
my front hair has been shortened and frizzled that I 
have lost any of the rest ; see !” She half turned her 


62 


MAISIE D£EEICa\ 


pretty head. “It is coiled round and round at the 
back; but never mind my hair, I want to hear you 
say decidedly that we are to stay over to-morrow.“ 

The lawyer’s face grew red, he fidgeted and hesi- 
tated, but Drusilla stood looking at him as if she 
meant to smile him into saying “Yes.” 

At last he gathered together the bills, and looked 
again at his own adding up. 

“I regret to say. Miss Lescure, that it is not pos- 
sible to stay; this is an expensive hotel, and in short 
we have already spent a good deal more than your 
guardian counted on; these little bills of yours 
amount to nearly fifty pounds. We really cannot 
afford to stay in Paris.” 

“Are you sure you have added them up right? 
Fifty pounds! Why, there is only one frock, a hat, 
and a few lace things.” 

“That is only one bill. Miss Lescure; there are 
three others besides; I regret to say the adding is 
correct. But we really must leave Paris to-night.” 

“You can’t mean it? You could not be so cruel!” 
She looked at him imploringly, but he went on : 

“I am very sorry, but I am due in London, and 
you are expected at Yardon to-morrow. I — I can- 
not tell you how grieved I am to vex you by refus- 
ing,” he said gently. 

Drusilla turned her back on him and hurried into 
her bedroom. She refused Mr. Ray’s proposal of a 
drive when he sent to offer it. She spent the after- 
noon in the contemplation of her purchases; she 
tried on the gown, and it fitted her as if it had been 


DRUStLLA JOVRXRY TO LN GLAND. 

made for her; she would have liked to dine in it, but 
the lawyer had sent word they must start soon after 
dinner, and she knew that the gown required careful 
packing. Drusilla had never packed before this jour- 
ney, but she deftly placed all her purchases in the 
trunk she had bought to hold them ; she was as ten- 
der of the pleats and trimmings as though they were 
living things; the contemplation and handling of 
them restored her good temper, and when dinner was 
announced she came in with a sweet smile that con- 
soled Mr. Ray for his dull afternoon. The poor man 
had not dared to leave the hotel, lest in his absence 
Miss Lescuro should take another flight among the 
shops. 

Drusilla was determined to be pleasant ;' she lis- 
tened to her companion’s stories, and led him to talk 
about Mr. Yard.on far more fully than he had in- 
tended to do. She looked very bright and pleas- 
ant, but she listened more than she talked, and once 
or twice the lawyer thought he saw a far-off look in 
her sweet dark eyes as if she were thinking of some- 
thing different from what he was saying. 

The girl was really dazed with the amount of nov- 
elty that had been suddenly thrust upon her; so 
many new places, new people, and beautiful things 
had passed like ever-shifting visions before her eyes 
in these last days that life had begun to seem un- 
real. Two days ago she would have said this frankly 
to Mr. Ray, but after her evening walk with the law- 
yer, Drusilla had taken herself to task. Her mother 
had always told her that no girl would succeed in life 


64 


MAl^IE DERniCk\ 


who held herself clieap, and although she had taken 
Victoire with her, she felt that her mother would 
have disapproved of her own easy way of talking 
and going about with a stranger. 

Madame Lescure had lived in seclusion in the 
lonely cottage, but she had been always treated 
with great respect by her neighbors. The tall, plainly 
dressed, silent lady had kept aloof from all these 
sociable, happy people, yet she had always been 
kindly greeted by them, and when she died Drusilla 
had been overwhelmed with sympathy. But the 
girl had not felt inclined to talk freely to the Sentis 
people; she saw that their eyes were full of eager 
curiosity, and she had repelled their advances. It 
was the intoxication of the coming journey that had 
drawn her into such artless confidences with Mr. 
Ray ; on that first evening she had very nearly told 
him of the Cannes episode, but she had not found 
the opportunity. 

When she reached home on that evening she told 
Victoire that she would give her Madame Lescure’s 
clothes and her own, for the girl thought that there 
was no need to let anyone in England know how 
poor she had been, or how shabbily she had dressed. 

Drusilla was very practical, and she handled her 
mother’s clothing without any of the sentiment 
which some daughters would have felt in so doing. 
She turned out the pockets and found them empty; 
in folding an under-petticoat it touched a chair and 
sent out a sound that made her unfold it again; she 
found a little pocket, and in it a small black bag; in 


DRUSILLA'S JOURNEY TO ENGLAND. 6^ 

this was a tiny leather case containing a locket ; on 
one side was the defaced portrait of a man — all that 
could be seen of it were its dark stern eyes; on the 
other side was the likeness of a young man, fair- 
skinned and smiling, with a delicate, high-bridged 
nose and full lips; underneath this was a strip of 
paper — on it were the words, “The likeness of my 
father, Charles Antoine Lescure.’' 

The girl grew cold while she looked at the faded 
bit of writing; it was her mother’s, and signed with 
her mother’s initials; at the first glance she had 
hailed it as a means of throwing light on the mys- 
tery that hung over her; but that feeling quickly 
faded — Lescure was her mother’s name, not her 
father’s; she grew pale as she realized this. 

It could not be that her mother had married a 
cousin, for Drusilla knew that her mother had often 
said she had no relations; she had been an only 
child, and so had her father and mother. It was, of 
course, possible that Madame Lescure had married a 
man with the same name, and for a while Drusilla 
tried to believe this, but she could not convince her- 
self it was so. It seemed to her that in this portrait 
she had found the key to the mystery of her bring- 
ing up ; if her mother had never been married, Dru- 
silla, who knew well how proud she was, could un- 
derstand her love of solitude and her dislike to her 
fellow-creatures. Drusilla wondered whose was the 
other portrait ; was it her real father, the man who 
had ruined her mother’s life? She was so angry 
when this thought came to her that she flung the 


66 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


little case on the ground and stamped on it with the 
heel of her shoe ; then she threw it into the stove, 
and tried to forget what it had taught her. 

Mr. Ray had found her changed and silent at the 
beginning of the journey; from Sentis she had 
scarcely slept all night, and she looked ill and de- 
pressed. Little by little the events of her journey 
had cheered her — had distracted her mind from this 
sad trouble, and when she reached Paris she fairly 
forgot it in the excitement of finding herself in the 
gay city. 

Her excursion this morning, and her talk with the 
young woman who had gone with her, had made Dru- 
silla feel older and wiser. She had learned many 
lessons in conventional behavior, and she had, above 
all, become more certain of her own powers of at- 
traction ; the hair-dresser’s compliments, and then the 
adroit flattery of the shopwoman who had sold her 
the gown and the lace, and of the milliner, as she 
tried the hat which had so fascinated Drusilla, had 
taught her how beautiful she was — she had never 
heard the old saying: 

Praise to the face 
Is open disgrace, 

and all this flattery only made her realize how very 
important a person she had become. 

She had also be'en impressed by the attention 
with which some other buyers in the gown shop had 
looked at her, and she had studied their behavior to 
the shopwoman and to one another. They had 
been chiefly English ladies, and Drusilla admired 


DRUSILLA^S JOURNEY TO ENGLAND. 67 

their quiet, self-possessed manner and the gentle way 
in which they spoke; she had a singular gift of imi- 
tation, and she at once resolved to adopt their man- 
ner, which seemed to her impressive and distin- 
guished ; in those vague talks with her mother, 
Drusilla had learned that a first, impression was 
most important. 

While she sat listening to Mr. Ray, the girl had 
mentally gone back to those talks with her mother; 
she ardently wished that she had persuaded her to 
tell her something more definite about her future 
than those vague allusions to a rich home and a pow- 
erful protector; but when Madame Lescure reached 
this point she had always ended with an abrupt dis- 
missal of the subject. 

This morning had given Drusilla several lessons; 
one of the ladies at the milliner’s had a beautiful car- 
riage and a fine pair of horses, and some well ap- 
pointed servants. Drusilla had instantly compared 
herself with this lady, and she had decided that her 
own beauty was far greater; she ought, therefore, 
she considered, to take as good a position. She re- 
solved to make the best of her opportunities at Yar- 
don, but unless she was likely to find a rich husband 
there, she did not think she should make a long stay 
at the place. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

DRUSILLA AT YARDON. 


Yardon Hall was only about three hours’ dis- 
tance from London. In answer to Mr. Ray’s letter 
the housekeeper had been sent off by a very early 
train to meet Miss Lescure on her arrival at Charing 
Cross Station. There was to be no delay, Mr. Yar- 
don had said, and now at three o’clock he sat in the 
library expecting his ward’s arrival. He was rest- 
less, and he seemed unhappy; the sad look on his 
face deepened when he heard the barking of the 
dogs. . 

Then came the sound of steps in the hall, and 
Warren threw open the library door and announced 
Miss Lescure.' 

Drusilla came in like a flash of sunshine, tall and 
slim and beautiful, while her fair hair showed golden 
as the light fell on it. 

Mr. Yardon had risen on her entrance, but he 
was so dazzled by her appearance that Drusilla took 
a far more comprehensive view of him than he 
received of her at the first glance. 

She saw a stern-faced man with fine dark eyes 
deeply set under strong gray eyebrows; she liked 
him, though there was nothing in his face to justify 
the attraction which she at once found in him, ex- 
gept that she thought he looked strong-willed and 

63 


DRUSILLA AT YARDON, 


69 


determined, and that if she could make a friend of 
him there would be far more to be proud of than in 
the conquest of a weaker man. 

Drusilla had not so far felt impressed by her 
reception. She had found the housekeeper dowdy 
and stupid; she noticed that the journey from the 
station was made in a dog-cart, instead of the 
carriage and pair of fine horses with footman which 
she had expected to find waiting for her at the 
station ; the butler, Warren, looked a humdrum 
personage; there had been nothing to confuse or 
make her nervous, and the bare walls of the entrance 
hall and its faded carpets and mats, and the old- 
fashioned chairs made her decide that Mr. Yardon 
was not in the position she hoped one day to 
occupy. His manner, however, satisfied lijer; he 
held out both hands and shook hers warmly. 

“I am very glad to see you, my dear,” he said 
kindly. “I hope you have had a pleasant journey.” 

Drusilla answered him calmly, and with a pleasant 
smile. Mr. Yardon was greatly impressed; there 
was such an entire absence of shyness in the girl; 
no nervous flutter, no flush on the fair smooth face ; 
she returned his glance fully, but even her pouting 
lips did not tremble. 

”You look older than I expected,” he said, as he 
pulled a chair forward. “You cannot be more than 
eighteen, I think,” 

Drusilla gave him a scrutinizing look out of her 
long dark eyes; she seated lierself in the ghair he 
]m\ placed for her, 


70 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


“I am nineteen.” 

Her calm, quiet manner puzzled Mr. Yardon ; he 
checked a sigh. 

‘‘Did your — your mother speak of me some- 
times?” he said. 

“No!” she answered firmly. She could not be 
sure that Mr. Yardon was the nameless protector 
about whom her mother had hinted so mysteriously; 
Madame Lcscure had even said, if Drusilla was 
modest and obedient her future would be splendid. 
As she looked round she saw how dull the room 
was; she could not even see a looking-glass; the 
only gilding was on the backs of the old brown 
books, and that was tarnished ; it was not possible, 
she thought, that this was her future benefactor; 
but she likect him. 

“Ah!” Mr. Yardon leaned back in his chair and 
looked at Drusilla inquisitively. “I wonder, now, 
what you had thought of doing, young lady, when 
you found yourself left alone in the world?” 

Drusilla slowly raised her eyes and looked into 
his; there was positively no expression in her fair 
face as she answered : 

‘‘I had not time to think, sir; my mother gave a 
letter addressed to you to our doctor, but she did 
not tell me what she had written. She died the 
day your first letter came to me; there was no need 
for me to think, you see.” 

She smiled as she ended. 

Her wonderful self-possession astonished him, but 
the smile jarred Ihiin Me remembered this 


DRUSILLA AT VARDON. 


71 


(girl’s mother had not been buried a week, and her 
daughter could smile already while she spoke of her 
death. As he looked at the young girl, however, he 
felt soothed by the mere sight of her beauty. 

'‘Are you very tired?” He found himself actually 
thinking about her feelings. 

‘‘I am not tired yet,” she said brightly; “every- 
thing is such a change to me. As long as I am 
amused, I do not think I shall feel tired.” 

There was a wistful look in her eyes which 
puzzled him. She was thinking of Mr. Ray’s de- 
scription of life at Yardon, and this old-fashioned 
room full of books had greatly depressed her; the 
idea of living here alone with this stern-looking man 
was very trying, just as she had gained her freedom. 

Mr. Yardon smiled, but Drusilla was sure he was 
vexed. 

“I shall expect you to amuse me,” he said; “it is 
not much trouble to amuse old people,” he added 
dryly. Then, with a twinkle in his dark eyes, “A 
young friend of mine comes here now and then on 
purpose to amuse me; he is a capital fellow.” 

He did not fail to see the pleased look that 
passed over Drusilla’s face. He rose, rang the bell, 
and desired that Miss Lescure should be taken to 
her room. 

Left alone, he wondered why he had made that 
remark about Stanmore ; he was ashamed to confess 
that Drusilla’s hint had alarmed him, and that, in 
fear of losing so charming a companion as she 
promised to be, he had thrown out this bait, 


72 


MAI SI E DERRICK. 


He was sure that the mere sight of a young man 
would please her. He forgot that Drusilla was a 
F'rench girl, and had been brought up in France; 
her heart was set on marriage as a means of gratify- 
ing her ambition. She liked conquest, but the idea 
of marrying a man only because she cared for him 
would have seemed to her selfish and unwise. Her 
mother had taught her that beauty was the only 
possession a poor girl needed ; it made her the equal 
of a rich and distinguished man. She had not told 
the girl she would have a young or a handsome 
husband ; no girl could expect to have everything, 
and money and position were the great prizes that 
made life tolerable. 

Drusilla repeated all this teaching to herself, as 
she followed the maid up the broad staircase and 
looked curiously about her. They had reached a 
square landing, from which the stairs went on to 
the left for a little way, and then paused at a gloomy 
arched opening. Through the gloom Drusilla spied 
a tall clock, and a huge black and gold Indian cabi- 
net. The maid did not go up the stairs on the left, 
she pushed open a red baize door facing them, and 
Drusilla had to follow her along a low gallery, 
lighted from above, with doors on either side. 

The girl felt disappointed with the surroundings. 
This low passage with its narrow strips of carpet 
and bare walls could, she thought, only lead to the 
inferior rooms; but she had not much time to think 
in, for the passage broadened and ended in front of 
a half-closed door, 


DRUSJLLA AT YAKDON. 


73 


The maid pushed this fully open, and Drusilla 
followed her into a handsome bedroom, with a rich 
carpet, and quaint, dark furniture. 

Drusilla smiled at the sight of a large oval mirror 
on the dressing-table, and another exactly opposite 
on the wardrobe; she could see herself reflected 
from head to foot. A comfortable easy chair, with 
a foot-stool in front of it, was placed close to the 
cheerfuTwood fire. 

The girl seated herself ; she felt soothed and 
cheered. She noticed a little sofa at the end of the 
bed, with a small writing-table in front of it, with 
all the necessaries for writing on it. Yes, she 
thought, there would after all be something to enjoy 
in all this unusual comfort. The bed hangings and 
window curtains were dowdy compared with those of 
the room she had slept in in Paris, but those were 
trifles; if she stayed at Yardon all that could soon 
be greatly improved. 

The maid disturbed her by asking for her keys. 

‘T’ll take out your things, miss, please,’' she said. 

Drusilla looked at the girl; she had small, inquisi- 
tive eyes and large clumsy hands. 

‘T prefer to unpack my own things, thank you. 
I will ring when I want you,” she said, in the calm 
dignified tone she had adopted. 

“Yes, ma’am,” the maid answered meekly; but 
she went downstairs and reported that the visitor 
was “a stuck-up young baggage, for all her pretti- 
ness.” 

Drusilla longed to feast her eyes again on her pur- 


74 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


chases, but she was more anxious to discover whether 
there was any other inmate of this dismal looking 
old house besides Mr. Yardon. She waited a few 
minutes, and then she went softly to the door and 
listened. She could only hear the dull tick of a far- 
off clock. She left her door ajar, and went back by 
the red baize door to the landing at the foot of the 
gloomy archwa}^. She had intense curiosity to find 
out what lay beyond this gloom. She went up the 
stairs, and found herself in a sort of ante-room or 
landing, surrounded on two sides with books; a 
small ground-glass window admitted scanty light, 
and opposite it on the left was a short passage. 

Drusilla gave a sigh of relief ; at the end of the 
short passage she came into a lofty gallery with 
doors on both sides; a flood of light streamed 
through a window at the end of it. Drusilla 
hesitated; it was possible, she thought, that Mr. 
Yardon might occupy one of these rooms. She 
dared not risk opening one of the closed doors. 
She went softly on to the window, and then she saw 
that a passage opened on her right with one door at 
its end and another close by her. 

From the window she looked on to the lawn, only 
divided by a sunk fence from the far-stretching 
fields beyond it. Drusilla could not see one house, 
for the village lay on the other side of the Hall, and 
she felt greatly depressed at the prospect before her. 
She turned from the window, feeling as if she were a 
prisoner; then she looked again up the little pas- 
sage on her right, and she saw that the door at its 


DR U SILL A AT YARDO.W 7S 

farther end was ajar; without stopping to think, 
she went forward and pushed it open. 

Her bright eyes opened widely; this was a 
smaller room than hers, and it had only one window. 
Facing the door near the window was a small bed, 
but when Drusilla reached the middle of the room 
she saw a deep recess parallel with the entrance 
passage, and in this were a pianoforte and a book- 
case. This was not all; the curtain across a hang- 
ing closet was partly undrawn and showed dresses 
and cloaks; there were little knick-knacks on the 
mantel-shelf and on the toilet-table : this was plainly 
a woman’s bed room. Drusilla went up to the hang- 
ing closet and looked at the gowns; they were very 
simple, and they looked like a lady’s gowns. 

In a moment the girl felt keenly jealous; and 
then, as she looked round her, she saw how much 
shabbier the furniture was here than in her own 
room. 

The sound of a distant bell interrupted her exam- 
ination. She resolved to go and unpack, and then 
find out who the lady was who occupied this 
curious old-fashioned room. . Drusilla had picked up 
a good deal more knowledge of life from her school- 
fellows at the convent than she had learned from 
her mother; it seemed to her possible that some 
lady might live at the Hall who was not Mr. 
Yardon’s wife, and whom he might not choose her 
to see. 


CHAPTER IX. 

A SPARRING MATCH. 

Mr. Stanmore received the summons he ex- 
pected, and he told his landlady he should not re- 
turn for a week. 

It seemed to Mrs. Grieg that this was a fortunate 
time to choose for a long-talked-of visit to her own 
people, and when a note came from her lodger 
putting off his return for yet another week, she 
decided to go and see the old aunt from whom she 
had ''expectations,’’ so as to be back before the be- 
ginning of "spring cleaning.” 

She left Figgsmarsh the day after Miss Lescure’s 
arrival; and now that she had come back it was 
vexatious to have no one at hand to question as to 
what had happened in her absence, for so very much 
had happened of late. Miss Savvay’s arrival and 
speedy departure, and finally the arrival of this 
handsome young French gii‘1, had excited Mrs. 
Grieg’s curiosity to such a pitch that, if she had not 
made all her ar'rangements and had not also been 
afraid of offending her aunt, she certainly would 
have deferred her journey. It was mortifving to go 
away in the early morning, ignorant even of the 
name of the new visitor at the Hall. 

She resolved, however, on her return to lose no 
time in satisfying herself. As soon as she had 

76 


A SPARJUNG MATCH, 


77 


finished her tea, and washed up her cup and saucer, 
she closed the front door behind her, and crossed 
the road to the forge. 

On Sundays, and when work was over, the forge 
had a blank appearance ; it was a tiled low-roofed 
barn with a large pair of wooden doors. At this 
time in the afternoon these doors stood open and 
showed within a dark cavernous place with a glow- 
ing red light in its midst; this light fell on the 
bronzed faces and arms of two powerful looking 
men — one ringing out musical blows with a huge 
hammer from an iron bar lying on the anvil beside 
the red glow; his shirt-sleeves, rolled up to the 
elbows, displayed the muscles of his hairy arms — his 
companion stood leaning against the wall hard by, 
as if he had given up work. 

Mrs. Grieg nodded to him. 

“Good-day to you, Mr. George,” she said politely; 
“shall I find your father in, d’ye think?” She 
pointed to a thatched cottage just beyond the 
forge. 

The burly smith nodded. 

“Surely, ma’am, you’ll find him as usual; you 
always find the old ’un in at this time. Td ’ve 
thought by now,” he said, with a chuckle, “you’d no 
call to ask that, Mrs. Grieg.” 

Mrs. Grieg moved her head, as if she felt unjustly 
accused by the young smith’s grin; she smiled as 
she went on to the cottage door. It was pleasant to 
her to be teased about old Foxley. Mrs. Grieg had 
no present intention of changing her condition, but 


7S 


MAlSlE DERRICK^ 


she believed in the old blacksmith's admiration, and 
enjoyed it. 

The cottage door was closed, but it suddenly 
opened, and a tall woman stood filling up the space 
so that no one could pass by her. She was blue- 
eyed and sandy-haired, her face was pale and flabby ; 
except that her mouth was fish-like and greedy, 
there was no expression in the stare that greeted 
the visitor. 

“Father in, Harriet?” 

Harriet nodded, and as she did not seem inclined 
to move, the widow squeezed between her and the 
whitewashed wall till she reached the open door of 
a room within. 

Harriet rubbed her shoulder. 

“She do push,” she grumbled ; “but there, it's 
them that pushes forrardest as takes the cake. Oh, 
Lor' ! Oh, Lor' !” 

She sighed, and then she followed her unwelcome 
guest. 

Mr. Foxley was sitting rather bent forward in his 
chair, with his big blue eyes fixed admiringly on 
Mrs. Grieg. He was strong and hearty, and except 
for a somewhat frequent visitation of lumbago, due, 
his daughter said, to a fondness for pastry and such 
food, he was as active at seventy-five as he had 
been ten years before. His sight had begun to fail, 
and perhaps for that reason he considered Mrs. 
Grieg a nice-looking little woman. He had no wish, 
however, to appropriate her; his daughter Harriet 
was plain and dull, but she was willing, and slavishly 


A SPARRINC MATC/P 


79 


obedient to his wishes, and she was not likely to be 
tempted to leave him. Mr. Foxley’s notion of life 
was to let well alone and better it as much as possi- 
ble by taking amusement from everything that came 
in his way, and Mrs. Grieg afforded the light-hearted 
old man a good deal of amusement without making 
a conscious effort to produce it. 

“Well,” she was saying when Harriet joined 
them, “I’ve been thinking a deal about you all, and 
how things were going on ; it isn’t leap-year, you 
know, dear Mr. Foxley, and yet so many strange 
things have happened. It seemed strange enough, 
considering what people said about the Hall, that 
Mr. Yardon should have one young girl to live with 
him; but to send for another, and she a foreigner; 
it beats me, it really docs.” 

“But he sent one away before t’other came, Mrs. 
Grieg?” 

“Isn’t Miss Derrick coming back, then? is that 
your meaning? I want to hear what the new one’s 
like, and if she visits the cottages as Miss Derrick 
did?” 

Mr. Foxley shook his head. 

“Three questions in a breath, ma’am ; you must 
give me a little leisure to answer in; you see I don’t 
fancy anyone knows more than their own business — 
ofttimes not too much o’ that — so you’ll maybe ex- 
cuse me, ma’am, if I don’t give an answer to all you 
ask for. But there’s no mistake on one point, mind 
you, Mrs. Grieg; this last-come young lady is a real 
beauty. My son Jarge says he never saw a picter a^ 


8o 


AtAlSlE DERRICIv, 


*ucl beat her, and the sext is mostly made the best 
of in picters, as you know, ma’am.” 

“Dear me! Is she that?” Mrs. Grieg’s eyes were 
round with surprise; she would not have believed in 
old Foxley’s verdict, but Mr. George was well 
known to have the sharpest sight for a pretty wo- 
man of any man in Figgsmarsh. “But you can tell 
me, Mr. Foxley, does the lady visit the cottages?” 

The old man’s eyes twinkled ; he rubbed his 
bristly chin, for^this being Friday he was greatly in 
need of his weekly shave. 

“Well,” he said, “she’s only been here a fort- 
night; it can’t be expected, can it, as she’d fall at 
once into the ways of Miss Derrick, who came two 
years and more ago?” 

“There ain’t many like Miss Derrick,” said Mrs. 
Grieg. Hitherto she had not thought much of 
Maisie, who always avoided stopping to talk with 
her, but so much praise of the new-comer made Mrs. 
Grieg contradictory. 

“Understand me, ma’am, I’m not finding fault 
with Miss Derrick; she’s a fine, well-grown young 
woman, and she have a pleasant face and quiet ways; 
but Lor’ bless you, Mrs. Grieg, t’other one would 
take all the wind out of her sails in a crack.” 

Mrs. Grieg had become heated with this unlimited 
praise of Miss Lescure; her face looked pinched and 
flushed, and there was a tremble in the superior 
tones of her voice as she answered ; 

“I know one as will never put Miss Derrick sec- 
ond, Mr. Foxley.” 


A SPARRIiVG MATCH. 


In the old blacksmith’s opinion women were such 
inferior beings that they were sure to be wrong in 
their assertions; he noted with much enjoyment the 
symptoms of irritation in his neighbor. He seized 
the opportunity of giving Mrs. Grieg a setting down. 

“Meanin’ your lodger, ma’am. W ell, I wouldn’t be 
cock-sure about that, if I were you, neighbor. This 
young beauty seems able to turn Mr. Yardon with 
her little finger, and he’s tougher to please than your 
lodger is, I fancy.” 

Harriet Foxley had stood behind Mrs. Grieg. 
There was a dull sound as if she had knocked her 
head against the wall on which she was leaning. 

Mrs. Grieg gave a little start, but old Foxley 
merely glanced at his daughter and then shrugged 
his shoulders. 

should say,” he said briskly, “that this young 
French miss would look higher than Mr. Stanmore. 
Harriet, my girl, you’ll I'Qaybe do that again’ the 
wall once too often, and make a hole in your skull ; 
it’s only a question of which is hardest.” 

Mrs. Grieg turned at this, and gave a look of won- 
der at the pale, stout woman behind her, but Harri- 
et’s colorless eyes were staring so blankly before her 
that she remained unconscious of being observed. 

“Lor’, Mr. Foxley!” Mrs. Grieg said; “do you 
mean she’ll be settin’ her cap at the vicar himself?” 

Mr. Foxley leaned back and enjoyed a hearty 
chuckle at his own superior wisdom. 

“I said higher than Mr. Stanmore, my good neigh- 
bor, and I’m not goin’ to set a parson higher than an 


^2 


MAt^lE DERRICK. 


engineer. What’s a parson, Mrs. Grieg? Any fool 
can be made into one, and he may live and die in the 
same parsonage like one o’ his own shrubs; he’ll 
never be more than a parson. Of course, ma’am, 
you’ll understand I ain’t speakin’ of bishops.” 

Mrs. Grieg shivered. She thought her respected 
neighbor was very irreverent — if not sacrilegious, 
and she answered him stiffly, drawing herself up : 

“Well, Mr. Foxley, that may be your opinion, but 
I should say it was a higher dooty to raise folks’s 
souls to heaven than to be always a-layin’ rails on 
the earth, as is the means of cuttin’ short other folks’ 
lives.” 

The old blacksmith shook his head as he fixed his 
humorous blue eyes on his visitor. 

“Beggin* your pardon, ma’am, one is as onlikely 
as t’other, but a capable engineer don’t stay where 
he’s first planted, mind you ; he’s as safe to rise as 
that Jack what’s-his-name rose on the bean vine into 
a barrow-night — such a thing has happened.” 

He paused, but the little widow did not interrupt. 

“I was not thinkin’ of any perfessional sweetheart 
for Miss Lescure, ma’am,” he went on ; “she’s the 
kind o’ woman that a lord or a real gentleman is apt 
to go wild over.” 

He nodded his head and winked: “I know ’em.” 

Mrs. Grieg looked at him curiously; she began to 
think he was a bit childish about the new visitor at 
the Hall. 

“You make me quite anxious to see this beauty,” 
she said, in a vexed voice; “but you only praise her; 


A SPARRING MAIGII. 83 

you don’t say what she’s like; is she as tall, now, as 
Miss Derrick?” 

Harriet seemed to think her turn had come. 
“She’s a good bit taller than what Miss Derrick is; 
she ain’t no height to speak of.” Foxley looked de- 
lighted, “Poor Harriet!” he said softly; then to 
Mrs, Grieg: “Yes, ma’am, our beauty is a perfect 
height ; there’s nothing about her as far as I can see 
as ain’t perfect. I was up the hill yesterday, and 
she was a-comin’ out o’ the gate along of Mr. Yardon 
as straight as a young larch — the wind was blowin’ 
her golden hair about, and her eyes was shinin’ like 
stars; I looked at her as I touched my hat and she 
gave me a smile” — he smacked his lips — “Lord ! I 
can see it now; I don’t believe Eve was a perfecter 
female creature than what she is.” 

The old blacksmith checked himself, and a little 
streak of color showed in each cheek. Though he 
had always plenty to say, Mr. Foxley prided himself 
on guiding his tongue with discretion ; he despised 
women for their unguarded speech. He felt now that 
he had given Mrs. Grieg “a handle” as he called it. 

Mrs. Grieg was looking more tortoise-like than ever 
as she listened with her pointed head a little on one 
side, thereby showing many creases in her lean 
brown throat, so loose-skinned that doubtless it had 
once been plumper; her keen black eyes glistened 
with a mixture of curiosity and vexation. 

“Well, I must say you are wonderful fascinated, 
Mr, Foxley,” (“It ain’t respectable of him,” she 
thought.) 


84 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


He nodded repressively. 

'‘I tell you all this, ma’am, for you to understand 
my meanin’ ; there’ll be a good bit takin’ place in 
Figgsmarsh ’tween this and Christmas, more than’s 
been for years past. Captain Wentworth’s cornin’ 
home for good, and then Manor House ’ll be open 
again, an’ it ’ll want a mistress. This young beauty 
’ll take the captain by storm, or I don’t know him.” 

He looked at her triumphantly. 

But the widow considered that he was meddling 
in matters that belonged exclusively to females; she 
raised her head stiffly and drew down her upper lip. 

“There’s no -tellin*,” she said; “this beauty, as 
you call her, may not care for the captain — he’ll 
not be much to look at, I fancy — and all of our sex 
ain’t alike in their tastes, Mr. Foxley; you think 
a heap of him, more than likely, because he’s Lord 
o’ the Manor, an’ so forth, you see.” Here she put 
her head again on one side. “Not bein’ born on his 
land makes a difference in my views; if I was this, 
beauty, and a good-lookin’ young gentleman came 
in my way, don’t you suppose Fd liever take up 
with him than with a broken-down constitootion who 
has passed his days in India an’ Heaven knows 
where, an’ ain’t got no liver, which they don’t in 
India; an’ he may have a black wife for what we 
know to the contrary.” 

She gave herself a little flounce of mingled dis- 
gust and superior wisdom ; and then, as she saw a 
look of sarcasm in her old friend’s face, she felt 
alarmed. 


A SPARRIiVG MATCIf. 


S5 


^‘I was a-wonderin’, ma’am,” he said slowly, ”what 
any of us know about your lodger; he’s got a wife, 
perhaps. Mrs. Grieg, have he ever told you in 
plain words that he’s a bachelor man?” 

The pale woman behind Mrs. Grieg put out both 
hands as if to save herself from falling, and Mrs. 
Grieg herself fidgeted and sat staring with a droop- 
ing under lip; but she quickly recovered herself. 

“Of course he’d have told me, Mr. Foxley, if he’d 
liad a wife, he being such a gentleman as he is in all 
his ways; let alone there’d be a photo or somethin’ 
or another to show. There is a photo, sure enough, 
that hangs beside his bed, an’ a very sw'eet face it is; 
but Lor,’ Mr. Foxley, that’s his mother; he told me 
so. Well, I must go an’ see if his rooms have been 
kep’ aired. More than likely a letter ’ll come to- 
morrow an hour or so before he comes hisself.” 


CHAPTER X. 

A LETTER. 

Winter has been suddenly and prematurely 
blotted out by delicious weather; the unwise leaves, 
judging by their feelings only, have strewn the 
ground below them with brown husks, and are busy 
unfolding their crinkled surfaces. 

“How delicious the air is,” Maisie said. “Spring 
air is so sweet, and yet it makes one feel lazy.” 

Miss Savvay looked up from her book. 

“I should not have said there was an3^thing 
especially lazy about you this morning, child. I 
was watching you run races with Patch on the 
grass.” 

The girl leaned back in her chair and laughed. 

“I said ‘feel.’ It is not easy to be actually idle 
beside industrious you.” Maisie hesitated, and 
then she looked affectionately at her companion. 
“Perhaps feeling so happy makes me lazy-minded.” 

“Happy!” Miss Savvay shook her head. “You 
can be happ}^ anywhere if you choose, Maisie. Why 
are you so different here and at Yardon? If I were 
a bright, healthy young girl, with your advantages, 
I would be happy everywhere, and I would make 
my grandfather spoil me.” 

Maisie’s head drooped, and she looked troubled. 
Mis3 Savvay watched her a moment in silence. 

§6 


A LETTER. 


87 


'‘You see,” the girl said plaintively, ‘‘it’s my fault 
for being shy; since I came here I’ve been wonder- 
ing whether it is not all vanity. I can’t feel shy 
with you, because you are so indulgent; you could 
not be unkind to me whatever I might do,” 

“I don’t know that; in fact I am now going to 
scold you. My notion is that you have irritated 
your’ grandfather by letting him see that you are 
afraid of him.” 

‘‘There is no use in arguing,” the girl said. “We 
come back to the starting point. I will do better 
when I go back; if I could believe that I was of any 
use, or that my grandfather really cared to have me 

with him, I could make myself happy, but ” 

She half closed her eyes, and Miss Savvay saw that 
she was suffering. Presently she went on firmly: 
‘‘It is better to say it out at once for all, and then 
we won’t talk of this again. I know what it is to 
be loved ; I never knew anything else till I went to 
Yardon. I am not fanciful — I never thought about 
feelings till I lived with my grandfather — but I 
know that he dislikes me. I go down in the morn- 
ing bright and happy, and then, I can’t tell how it 
comes, but I get suddenly chilled ; I feel quite 
frozen. I do everything awkwardly. I look up and 
I see that he is disgusted. My self-control goes, I 
am frightened ; and then instead of smiling when I 
speak, I am as grave and solemn as he is. I can't 
conquer myself, dear Miss Savvay; I can’t, indeed. 
It is like a nightmare. Now you see how silly I am.” 
There was a quaver in her voice as she tried to smile. 


83 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


Her friend looked very severe. 

“You want a good deal of change,” she said ; then 
v^ery abruptly added: “I can’t make out why you 
don’t stay with me altogether.’* 

Maisie rose. 

“I promised to live at Yardon,” she said in a 
sorrowful voice, and she went upstairs. 

Miss Sa way’s rooms were smaller than those at 
Yardon, but they had the undefinable charm about 
them which a woman’s taste can exercise, supposing 
she has such a faculty. The carpet was old, and 
the paper on the walls was faded — they had been 
good — but the curtains were dainty and fresh look- 
ing, and so was the covering of the chairs and sofas, 
and the various cushions lying about on them. 
Little tables were placed just where a table was 
needed ; and there were pretty knick-knacks on 
them ; flowers freshly gathered and effectively 
grouped brightened every part of the room. It is 
possible that these pleasant surroundings, which 
reminded Maisie of her own home with her mother, 
had helped to make the congenial atmosphere she 
had found at Nappa. She did not care to stay long 
upstairs; the talk with her friend had not left any 
pleasant food for reflection. 

She found Miss Savvay reading a letter when she 
came down. 

“Guess who my correspondent is,” she said ; *‘you 
need not be jealous, Maisie ; I will read you Mr, 
Stanmore’s letter.” 

JhQ girl’s eyes brightened ; she looked very liappy 


A LETTER. 


89 


as she seated herself near the window with her face 
turned from her companion. Since she had been at 
Nappa it had seemed to Maisie that she might have 
mistaken Mr. Stanmore’s manner; it might only 
have meant kindness. 

The letter began : 

‘'Dear Miss SavvaV: I could not see you again 
at Yardon, for the day after our expedition I received 
a summons to town, and I had to stay there a 
fortnight before the business I went on was com- 
pleted. I was so much mortified to find that you 
had gone and carried off Miss Derrick. I write now 
to ask you when you are coming back. You have 
no doubt heard about Mr. Yardon’s visitor, and I 
suppose you will expect me to say what I think of 
her. I hear this is Miss Lescure’s first visit to Eng- 
land ; she is said to be very beautiful. I hear she 
is Mr. Yardon’s ward.’' 

“Miss Lescure! What does he mean?” 

Maisie looked annoyed as she spoke. 

“You know I told you there was a reason for our 
leaving Yardon, dear child. Your grandfather, I 
believe, meant to tell you himself. He asked me to 
take you away because some one was coming to 
stay at Yardon. I fancy he was not quite sure 
whether this person would be fit to associate with 
you, Maisie. Now listen; I had only read Mr. 
Stanmore’s letter so far when you came in.” 

“I have not yet seen her,” the letter went on ; “she 
seems to have greatly impressed my landlady, and 


90 


MAISIE DERMCK. 


old Foxley raves about her, but you have no doubt 
heard of her charms from Mr. Yardon.” 

“How very strange,” Maisie said, “that grand- 
father does not write and tell me. What does it all 
mean?” 

Miss Savvay was silent; at first she had felt glad 
that the strange grandfather should have filled 
Maisie’s place, but, as she thought the matter over, 
it seemed to her that this might be some imposter 
who would rob her friend of what she had a right to 
expect. 

“Just now,” the letter went on, “I got up and 
looked out of the window. I saw Mr. Yardon and 
his ward coming down the hill ; he was laughing, 
and was evidently much amused by his companion’s 
talk. She looks very pretty, and seems bent on 
fascinating our unsociable squire. Tell Miss Derrick 
she ought to come back and watch over her grand- 
father. Miss Lescure may be a vampire in the 
shape of an angel.” 

“The letter breaks off here,” Miss Savvay said; “it 
goes on again in different ink: T have come in to 
finish my letter, and I am half inclined to tear it 
up ; I fear I have given you a wrong impression of 
Miss Lescure. That is all nonsense I wrote 
above; she is no doubt as good as she is beautiful. 
1 meant to have sent you a much longer letter, 
but I have been walking with them, and I am to 
dine at the Hall this evening. I suppose it is no 
news to you to hear that Captain Wentworth is 
really coming home, and may be expected at the 


A LETTER. 


9f 

Manor House any time next month. The Figgs- 
marsh people are all agog; they talk of triumphal 
arches, and bonfires, and fireworks, and all sorts of 
rejoicings. Good-by. 

“ ‘Sincerely yours, 

“ ‘Luke Stanmore.’ 

Miss Savvay looked at Maisie; the girl sat with 
her eyes fixed on the window, her clasped hands 
quite still in her lap. 

“Do you think Miss Lescure is going to live at 
Yardon?” she said at last, in a voice not like her own. 

“I only know what I told you then Miss Savvay 
added cheerfully; “it will make a change — will it 
not? If you like her it will be at least pleasant to 
have a young companion.” 

“Yes,” Maisie said slowly; then after a pause she 
added, “You are quite right; I am so slow, you see, 
in making up my mind, that at first I was not sure 
that 1 liked the idea of finding a stranger when I go 
back to Yardon; but I expect Miss Lescure will 
brighten us all. She has already done wonders with 
my grandfather, to judge by that letter; fancy his 
taking a walk with her!” 

“Yes.” Miss Savvay did not answer heartily, she 
felt doubtful and troubled. She did not like this 
suddenly gained influence over Mr. Yardon, and she 
did not at all like the change of tone in Mr. Stan- 
more’s letter — there was even a change in the hand- 
writing — it seemed at the beginning as if he took a 
pleasure in what he was doing, but after the break 


02 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


in the letter the writing was hurried and scarcely 
legible; finished off anyhow, Miss Savvay thought. 

The maid came in with a note. 

Miss Savvay* rea'd ‘it, and then she looked 
troubled. 

“I am afraid I must go,” she said; ‘T am wanted 
at once at the Vicarage ; I must leave you to amuse 
yourself, dear child.” 

Maisie was glad to be left alone. IMr. Stahmore’s 
letter had given her much to think over; a feeling 
that was entirely new to her, something between 
disquiet and distrust, had taken the place of that 
serene peace which had made her so happy. She 
had often .wished to see Mr. Stanmore, and every 
day the wish had grown stronger, but she had felt 
sure of finding him the same when she went back to 
Yardon. He had not said in words, ‘T love you, 
Maisie,” but his eyes had said it more than once; in 
that last walk across the moor with Miss Savvay 
they had said, ‘T love you, and you may trust me.” 
Maisie’s trust had gone with her love : she thought 
herself unworthy of his affection, and yet she be- 
lieved in it wholly and without reserve. 

She did not know the meaning of this strange 
trouble that brooded on her and kept her sitting at 
the window while Miss Savvay went to the Vicar- 
age. In the morning the spring flower-beds on the 
lawn had seemed to sparkle with color, and now, 
although the sun was still shining, a gray tone had 
spread itself over them all. Alaisie felt that she was 
tired of Nappa, she longed to be at Yardon again. 


CHAPTER XL 

STANMORE WALKS UP THE HILL. 

The old saying, “Absence makes the heart grow 
fonder,” had justified its truth in Mr. Stanmore. 
When he found himself obliged to leave Figgsmarsh 
without opening his heart to Maisie Derrick, he 
first decided on writing to her, and then, when he 
realized how much he should lose by telling his love 
on paper, he resolved to wait. 

It was a fresh trial of patience to learn on his re- 
turn that Maisie was not at the Hall; but Mrs. 
Grieg lost no time in telling him where she was to 
be found, and a few days after his return to the 
village he began a letter to Miss Savvay. Plis 
motive in writing was to ask if he might appear at 
Nappa, but before he reached this point he was 
interrupted by his landlady. 

“If you please, sir, here’s Mr. Yardon and his 
young lady; he wants to see you, sir, but he won’t 
come in, though I asked him.” 

Stanmore hurried downstairs and found Mr. 
Yardon on the door-step. 

“Good-day, Stanmore,” he nodded; “come along; 
I want you to look at a horse.” 

He crossed over to the forge, where one of his 
horses, a handsome creature, was being shod. The 
operation was just finished, and Stanmore found 


93 


94 


MAISIE DEEkICK, 


that he was expected to praise this horse, which he 
had already seen and admired more than once ; he 
looked inquiringly at Mr. Yardon; he knew very 
well that he had not been called downstairs only for 
this. 

‘'Why don’t you come up and see us?” Mr. 
Yardon was trying to look grave. Yet the corners 
of his mouth seemed disposed to broaden into a 
laugh. ‘‘What has happened to you in London to 
make you shut yourself up? You were ready 
enough to come before you went there. What has 
made you so unsociable, eh?” 

Stanmore knew by the change in the old man’s 
face that he must be looking conscious. 

‘‘I have only been back a few days,” he said. 

‘‘Nonsense! You must come up and dine with 
us; come up this evening. No,” he put up his 
hand, ‘‘I won’t hear any excuse; I told your land- 
lady just now she needn’t provide dinner for you. 
You’ll be surprised at what I have to show you. 
Come this way, we shall find Miss Lescure at the 
draper’s.” 

He walked on, and Stanmore found himself 
obliged to follow. He noticed that Mr. Yardon did 
not exchange greetings with a single villager who 
passed him. One or two men nodded to Stanmore, 
and a woman courtesied, but Mr. Yardon seemed far 
more like a stranger in the village than his com- 
panion did. They walked on silently till they 
reached the draper’s. 

Miss Lescure came out at the same moment. 


BT AMMO RE MALICE UR 7'IlE HILL 95 

She did not at first seem to notice Stanmorc, but 
he was looking at her, and he saw how radiantly she 
smiled at Mr. Yardon. Her face looked very lovely 
under the shade of her large black hat and feathers. 

“If Maisie had only smiled like that at her grand- 
father,” he thought, “her life would have been 
happier with him ; old people like to be petted and 
made much of. She threw away her chances, poor 
girl; but then she is too genuine to affect what she 
does not feel. I believe this girl is playing a part.” 

“How do you do?” Miss Lescure said, in her 
pretty foreign accent, putting her long slim fingers 
into Mr. Stanmore’s hand, as Mr. Yardon introduced 
him. Her eyes drooped demurely after one rapid 
glance. 

Mr. Yardon turned back and led the way to the 
foot of Hill Lane. 

Miss Lescure was silent, and Stanmore did not 
feel obliged to talk to her. 

“How long have you had that horse, Mr. Yardon?” 
he said. Mr. Yardon stopped and looked back; he 
was a few paces ahead of Stanmore. 

“Between three and four years. I must go in 
here; walk on, I shall catch you up directly.” 

Stanmore walked on with Mr. Yardon's ward, but 
he was annoyed ; he admired Miss Lescure very 
much, and he felt it was pleasant to look at her; 
but he considered himself engaged to Maisie, and 
he did not wish the gossips of Figgsmarsh to say 
that in her absence he had walked about with this 
.beautiful young woman. 


96 


A/AISIE DERRICK. 


She was looking straight before her and appeared 
to be unconscious of his admiration. It was evi- 
dent, Stanmore thought, that she would not break 
the silence. 

'‘Do you like England?” he said at last, as the 
silence continued. 

She turned her eyes on him. 

What eyes they were ! he thought ; so dark and 
so liquid; so full of tender yet pensive thought. 
Stanmore felt ashamed of his harsh judgment of 
her. 

‘‘Do you think I can tell yet?” she said meekly. 
'‘You cannot expect me to like London — I only 
saw the roofs and the dirty chimneys of houses as 
we came into it ; Ave did not stir from the station 
till it was time for the train to bring me to Figgs- 
marsh.” 

Stanmore liked to listen to her clear voice and 
her pretty foreign accent ; he was sorry when she 
left off speaking. 

"Well,” he smiled at her, ‘hvhat do you think of 
Figgsmarsh and the neighborhood? It is of course 
a small place, but people can judge from samples.” 

"Figgsmarsh is too small a place for a sample of 
England, and almost all the people are villagers.” 

Stanmore laughed. 

"I suppose I ought to say how do you like the 
change to England?” 

Drusilla looked relieved. 

“That is an easier question to answer, and I love 
easy questions so much better than difficult ones,” 


STANMOI^E IVALKS UP THE HILL. 


97 


she said, with a sweet humility that Stanmore felt to 
be very winning in such a lovely creature. '‘Yes,” 
she went on, ‘‘I like the change at present, because 
it is change, perhaps; but I suppose Mr. Yardon 
sometimes has visitors?” She looked calm, but she 
was anxious for his answer; she felt that he would 
tell her all she wanted to know. She had asked Mr. 
Yardon who slept in that other part of the house, 
but he had only answered gravely, ‘‘Visitors some- 
times slept there,” and then he began to talk of 
something else. 

Drusilla had been afraid to question the house- 
keeper, but she felt sure there was a mystery. 

‘‘There are not often visitors at the Hall,” Stan- 
more answered, ‘‘but I suppose you know Miss 
Derrick lives there? You will soon have her back 
again; you know she is Mr. Yardon’s grand- 
daughter.” 

He said this in answer to his companion’s look of 
surprise. 

Drusilla was very much vexed; she felt such 
power over Mr. Yardon that she could not under- 
stand why he had not told her this fact. She 
determined that Mr. Stanmore should tell her 
everything. 

‘‘Is Miss Derrick very young?” 

‘‘She is about your age, I fancy; perhaps rather 
older. You will find her a very delightful com- 
panion.” 

He saw a weary look of discontent in the girl’s 
beautiful eyes, and it puzzled him. 


98 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


Drusilla had noticed a certain change in his ; 
manner; she already liked Mr. Stanmore, and she ; 
thought, as visitors seemed to be rare at the Hall, j 
it would be pleasant to see him often; but she j 
should prefer to keep such a visitor to herself. She | 
disliked a half-share in anything, and she thought . 
that Miss Derrick would come in her way with Mr. 
Yardon as well as with her present companion. She J 
began to speak of her journey. 

'‘Do you know Mr. Ray?” she said. 

‘‘No; I have heard Mr. Yardon speak of him. 
Did he travel with you?” 

‘‘Oh, yes, he fetched me from abroad. He was 

very amiable, I think ” She put her hand up to 

her mouth to hide a yawn. 

Stanmore noticed her gloves; they were new, a 
pale gray color; he felt jarred. Miss Lescure had 
yet to learn how to dress for a country walk. He 
answered her with a quickness that attracted her 
notice : 

‘‘Do you find amiable people wearisome?” 

Drusilla smiled at him. 

‘‘You are not; but then perhaps you are not 
always so amiable as you have been to-day,” 

‘‘You need not be afraid of me; people generally 
make themselves pleasant to you, do they not?” he 
said, as frankly as if he were speaking to Maisie 
Derrick. 

Drusilla thought he was brusque. 

‘‘I have not lived with many people,” she said, a 
little stiffly. 


STANMORE WALKS UP THE HILL. 


99 


“Really!” He saw an angry look in her dark 
eyes ; she paused before she answered. 

“I have lived shut up with an invalid,” she said 
presently, in a softened tone; “you can perhaps 
guess how much I enjoy the freedom of doing what 
i like.” 

Stanmore felt interested and puzzled, but he was 
sure that Miss Lescure did not wish to be questioned 
about her past life. 

“I hope you will soon have Miss Derrick back at 
Yardon,” he said. 

His companion’s bright, mocking smile made him 
regret his words; he saw that he had implied his 
own good opinion of Maisie, and that this strange 
girl seemed to be laughing at him. 

“You appear to be very sure I shall like Miss 
Derrick,” she said saucily. “I want to hear about 
her, please. To begin with, she is of course 
beautiful.” 

Stanmore bit his lip. 

“I am not good at describing people,” he said 
nervously ; “also I may give you a wrong impression ; 
every one here will tell you about Miss Derrick’s 
goodness — she is so kind to the poor people when 
they are in trouble ; you should hear them talk about 
her.” 

Miss Lescure looked serious; she pouted a little. 

“I shall be afraid of your paragon. I am not at 
all good, you see, and Miss Derrick will despise 
me.” 

He was very much vexed. 


ICO 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


“I told you how it would be; I cannot dt^scribe 
people. I see I have given you an entirely wrong 
idea; Miss Derrick is the sweetest, brightest girl 
you can think of ; no one could help loving her.” 

Drusilla stared at him gravely while he spoke, but 
when he ended, she smiled and half closed her eyes, 
till they looked like dark velvet lines. 

”You are a warm friend,” she said pensively. 
“You make me curious to see Miss Derrick; she is 
at least ver}^ good-looking, I suppose?” 

Stanmore longed to change the subject, but he 
felt obliged to answer. 

“There is a singular charm about her, but I am 
not sure that you will think her beautiful ; she is 
gifted in many ways, and she has read a great 

deal ” He stopped abruptly and wished he had 

been silent. 

Drusilla laughed merrily. 

“Worse and worse! I shall be frightened to 
death of her; I shall not dare to open my lips be- 
fore her! I am sure she is what our sisters at the 
convent used to call ‘a very superior person.’ ” 

Stanmore walked on in savage silence. He 
almost hated Miss Lescure; she had somehow put 
Maisie in an unfavorable light, or rather she had 
made him conscious that his beloved’s qualities 
were too rare to be appreciated by every one. 

He was glad, and sorry too, when they reached 
the Hall gates; he wished he could alter the 
impression he had given of Maisje, and yet some- 


STANMOl^E WALKS UP THE HILL, 


lOI 


thing warned him that he would be wise in not 
speaking of her again to Miss Lescure. 

“Good-by,” she said ; “we are to have the pleasure 
of seeing you this evening, so I will say an revoirT 
“By Jove! what a grace the girl has about her,” 
Stanmore thought. “When she has mixed a little 
more with others she will be like a queen.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 

Miss Savvay wrote to Mr, Yardon to propose 
Maisie’s return, and she received a polite but decided 
refusal. He said he did not at present wish for her, 
but he hoped soon to write and. fix a time for the 
pleasure of seeing both Miss Savvay and his grand- 
daughter at Yardon. 

At the end of a month Miss Savvay was summoned 
to London to meet her nephew. Captain Wentworth, 
on his arrival, and she wrote to Mr. Yardon to 
announce Maisie’s return. 

The girl was a little nervous about her reception, 
and also about her meeting with Miss Lescure; she 
had counted on Miss Savvay’'s support, and she felt 
shy to her finger-tips when she reached the Hall. 

Warren told her his master was out, but that Miss 
Lescure was in the drawing-room. 

Maisie tried to call up her courage as she crossed 
the Hall; she reminded herself it was her place to 
welcome this young foreigner, but she felt shyer 
than ever when she found herself sitting on the sofa 
beside Drusilla. She could not take her eyes from 
the lovely creature; she thought Miss Lescure 
looked so sweet and childlike, there was such a 
serene wonder in her eyes. 

This wonder was real ; Drusilla could not under- 


FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 


103 

stand how a lady — for she felt that Maisie was a 
lady — could dress so simply, and be so entirely un- 
assuming. 

Miss Lescure considered that these were serious 
defects; and she saw that she need not fear Maisie 
as a rival, either with Mr. Yardon or with Mr. Stan- 
more. Miss Derrick was handsomer than she had 
expected her to be, and if she would only squeeze 
her waist in a little, Drusilla thought she would 
have a very perfect figure; she found herself envy- 
ing the rich brown wavy hair which made such a 
contrast in color to her own golden frizzle. 

The girls began to talk on various subjects, and 
as Maisie shrank from talking about herself, she 
soon became deeply interested in Drusilla’s account 
of her journey. She looked at the girl’s black gown, 
but she did not like to ask why she wore it. 

Drusilla understood Maisie’s wistful glance, and 
she said abruptly : 

“I am in mourning for my mother.” 

Maisie leaned forward and kissed her; she felt 
that there was a link between her and this beautiful 
stranger. 

know what that loss is,” she said tenderly; “it 
seems the worst grief that anyone can have.” 

A sort of wonder at herself flitted across 
Drusilla’s thoughts; she seldom indulged in self- 
questioning about the past, feeling sure that she 
had done rightly — her point of view being that 
success and the right way were one. With her, 
reflection and speculation were always directed to 


104 


MAI SI E DERRICK. 


the future and to the best method of avoiding failure 
in her purposes; it was therefore the revelation of a 
new self to see, in the light cast by Maisie’s words, 
that she had not been conscious of an overpower- 
ing grief for her mother. She felt, however, that it 
was better to assume what was expected of her; 
she had already determined to have Maisie “on her 
side,’- as she expressed it, and she accepted her 
offered sympathy as if she needed it. 

“Yes,” she sighed, “it’s very sad; I miss her very 
much.” 

She was speaking the truth ; she had often wished 
for her mother’s advice since she had been at 
Yardon. She enjoyed her freedom from restraint 
and from the taunts to which she had been ac- 
customed, but she was well aware that those very 
taunts had stung into her lessons of reticence and 
worldly wisdom which helped her every day. 

“Was she ill long?” Maisie said softly. 

Drusilla turned away, there was a limit to grief. 

“She was always ill ; I — I would rather not talk 
about it.” 

Maisie sighed ; she was very sorry for the poor 
semi-foreign girl ; she sighed, too, a little over her 
own hasty judgment. She had really thought at 
first that Drusilla was not sorrowful enough, and all 
the while the poor thing was feeling her mother’s 
loss too deeply to talk about it. 

“I have been spoiled at Nappa,” Maisie thought. 
“I believe after all, Yardon is the wholesomest place 
for me.” 


FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 105 

Till Maisie Derrick came to live at the Hall, she 
had never found time or inclination to think about 
herself or her feelings, but except the few occasions 
when her grandfather had asked her to copy out a 
passage from one of his rare books, he had made 
her feel that she was useless to him. He preferred 
that all household duties should be regulated by his 
housekeeper, and Maisie had been glad to interest 
herself in the poorer village people as a means of 
using her time not entirely for herself. She 
struggled now against an instinctive shrinking from 
her companion, and looking tenderly at Drusilla, she 
resolved to make this motherless girl's life as 
. pleasant as she could : this idea of protection gave 
Maisie a sudden courage which beautified her. 

Drusilla was watching her companion with secret 
amusement; she thought Miss Derrick very strange; 
she certainly was a lady, and yet Madame Lescure 
*had told her daughter that real ladies never let other 
people see their feelings, and Miss Derrick's eyes 
were full of tenderness when she looked at her. 
'‘They are beautiful eyes, too," Drusilla thought, 
almost in spite of herself, for she was not enthusi- 
astic about female beauty; her thoughts added: 
"Perhaps she knows her eyes look handsomer when 
she puts feeling in them." 

"I suppose you speak French easily?" Maisie said. 

Drusilla smiled bewitchingly. 

"I spoke English with my mother; but I was 
born in France, and I have always lived there, so 
French is really my native tongue." 


io6 MAISIE DERRICK, 

“Your name is not English,” 

“No.” 

Drusilla drew her delicate eyebrows together, and 
compressed her lips. Maisie had touched on her 
secret trouble. She had often puzzled over her 
name, for her mother had once said that her father 
had English relations; but the revelation that had 
come to her when she found the locket had been a 
bitter trial — it had made the girl believe that she 
had no right to her father’s name. This memory, 
obscured by the sudden change in her monotonous 
life, had returned in the quiet of Yardon. and now 
Maisie’s words seemed to her prompted by a secret 
knowledge. Drusilla looked at her with suspicion. 

Maisie was wholly unconscious of the effect her 
words had produced. 

“I wonder if I can muster courage to talk French 
with you?” she said; “it would be such a help to 
me.'^’ 

“Would it*? I thought you knew everything; a 
friend of yours tells me you are quite learned.” 

Maisie wondered whether the friend was Mr. 
Stanmore or her grandfather; her face flushed, and 
her eyes drooped as Drusilla looked at her. 

“Do you play any instrument? do you sing?” 
asked the French girl. 

“I do both, for my own amusement; you must 
please not ask me either to play or to sing before 
my grandfather.” 

“Why not? I amuse him by singing; I play my 
guitar and sing, and he is never tired of listening to 


IMPRESSIONS. ioj 

me. I dance, too, queer old-fashioned dances I 
have seen the peasants dance in France, and Mr. 
Yardon claps his hands with delight when I dance 
and sing patois songs. He says I am very accom- 
plished, so I suppose I am.’' 

Maisie felt amused, and yet a little uneasy. 

‘'Do you like reading?” she said. 

Drusilla shook her head. 

“My mother would not let me read her books; 
she said the amusing ones were not fit for girls, 
and the nun’s books were so dull — all about children 
and good people or about things that never really 
happened. I tried to read a book on the journey 
here — a French novel, that amused me — but Mr. 
Ray was vexed when he found me reading it, and 
he took it away, I believe, for I could not find it 
when we reached England. What do you do to 
amuse yourself. Miss Derrick?” she added abruptly. 

“Please call me Maisie.” The girl wondered 
whether her amusements would suit this lively 
creature, who loved singing and dancing, and read- 
ing French novels. “I garden a good deal,” she 

said simply, “and I take walks, and ” She 

hesitated, for Drusilla’s eyes were searching her face 
with a suspicious expression, checked, however, as 
soon as she saw that it was observed. “I go and 
see a few poor people in the village.” 

“Why do you do that? they can’t like it. If a 
rich lady had come — I mean, if I were poor and a 
lady came prying into my house, I should shut the 
door against her.” 


lOb 


j/JISlE DERRICK, 


Maisie laughed. 

'‘I do not go to pry,” she said; “I only go when 
help is wanted. One old woman is blind, and has 
no one to read to her, and there are several mothers 
who have delicate health and a good many young 
children.” 

“How dull! I do not see how you can care for it, 
or help them,” Drusilla said scornfully. “Poor 
people are dirty, and children are horrid little 
things; their hands are always sticky — I expect 
they spoil your gowns.” 

“I wear gowns that won’t spoil ; but if you like 
you can help these children without even going to 
see them : I am sure you could make much nicer 
frocks than I can.” 

Drusilla’s face flushed, her long dark eyes looked 
very hard. 

“I make frocks!” she said almost harshly, “you 
are quite mistaken, I never made a child’s frock in 
my life. I asked you how you amuse yourself; I 
hope you don’t consider that sort of thing amusing. 
My goodness ! No.” 

She shrugged her graceful shoulders, and her lip 
curled. 

Maisie laughed heartily. 

“Oh, I dare say we shall be able to amuse our- 
selves in other ways. Will you come with me now 
and call at the Rectory?” 

Drusilla was vexed at her own want of self-control. 
The lady she had seen in the Paris shop would not 
have let anyone see that she was ruffled. 


MRS 7^ IMPRESSION’S. 


tOC) 

*'No, thank you; I am sure from what he has 
said that Mr. Vernon admires you, so I should only 
be in the way ; and I do not care for Miss Auricula — 
she thinks she is queen of Figgsmarsh, poor thing. 
It is too ridiculous.’' 

She imitated Miss Vernon’s voice and her way of 
holding her head so exactly, yet so absurdly, that 
Maisie could not help laughing. 

“Good-by, then,” she said; “I shall be back in 
less than an hour, but I promised to giv^e the rector 
Miss Savvay’s message directly I got home.” 

“You are too dutiful to live,” Drusilla called after 
her as she went away. Her mocking tone jarred on 
Maisie. 

“I was foolish to say anything about the village,” 
she thought ; “why should I want her to like what 
I like? She is perhaps more useful than I am, 
though she makes no show of it ; at any rate she is 
very sweet.” 

Half an hour later Maisie was on her way to the 
village, her heart beating quickly with the hope of 
meeting Mr. Stanmore. 

Drusilla meantime was carefully studying herself 
in one of the long mirrors between the drawing- 
room windows. She smiled at the sight of her own 
beauty; then she went upstairs and fetched a large 
coarse straw hat which she had bought in the 
village, and placing herself again before the glass 
she stood bending and crumpling the brim with 
dextrous fingers into a form that exactly suited her; 
she slightly pinched her delicate cheeks. 


lio 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


“Poor Miss Derrick! she is as easy to see through 
as a bit of glass ; I wish, though, I had the lovely 
color she gets when she flushes; she looked so hand- 
some just now I was quite glad Mr. Stanmore was 
not here to see her; still, he would not look at me 
as he does if he cared for her. I wish she had not 
come back just yet; people should never come 
where they are not wanted. “ 

Miss Lescure looked at her watch, she was expect- 
ing Luke Stanmore, but she had thought it un- 
necessary to say so to Maisie Derrick. 


CHAPTER XIIL 

A SHOCK. 

Maisie went down hill with a springy step, and 
that buoyant feeling of lightness both in body and 
spirit which makes a very near approach to happi- 
ness, so far as happiness can be found in mere sensa- 
tion ; she was even joyful ; she was sure that she 
should have an interesting companion in Drusilla, 
for the girl liked the give-and-take of human inter- 
course far better than a constant acquiescence in 
her own ideas; she enjoyed, too, the invigoration 
of going back to the daily routine of life. She was 
on her way to see an old friend in the village, and 
then she was bound for the Vicarage. 

Maisie had a keen sense of humor, and Miss 
Auricula’s superior manner amused her far more 
than it vexed her. ‘Toor woman,” she said, as she 
passed the trim gate on her way down the lane, “she 
has always had to associate with untaught people, 
and her own superior knowledge has become a fixed 
idea. She cannot, perhaps, change her manner 
when she is among her equals.” 

Maisie turned to the right when she reached the 
bottom of the lane; she did not see that Mrs. 
Grieg was peeping at her from behind her lodger’s 
curtains. 

Mrs. Grieg shook her head, and decided that Miss 

III 


1 


MAtSlE derrick. 


Derrick must have picked up another sweetheart 
while she was away, or she could not have looked 
so free from care. 

The blacksmith was not sitting at the half-open 
door of his cottage, but Harriet Foxley came out 
and gave a half-sulky nod in answer to Maisie’s 
smiling greeting; Harriet's left shoulder was so near 
her ear that anyone of her associates would have 
known at once that she w^as in a temper. 

'Ts your father quite w^ell, Harriet?" 

"Yes, ma’am." 

Harriet .saw^ that Miss Derrick lingered as if she 
would come in, and, coming more forw^ard, she filled 
the doorw’^ay with her ample brown skirt and black 
apron. 

In the fuller light her hair looked the color of red 
gravel against her dull yellow^ face. She stared 
hard at Miss Derrick, and Maisie fancied there w^as 
an expression of dislike in the woman’s large pale 
blue eyes. 

"Father’s not in," Harriet said slowly. "He’s 
gone up to the Hall; summat’s amiss with the 
mare’s foot — Miss Lescure’s mare." 

She stopped, and Maisie felt restless under her 
steady stare; Harriet had avoided her during her 
past winter visits to the genial old blacksmith, visits 
which had been pleasanter in his silent daughter’s 
absence. 

Miss Derrick nodded farewell to Harriet, and w^as 
turning back tow^ard the lane. 

"Ain’t she a beauty?" Harriet said abruptly; 


A SHOCK, 


I13 

she pointed in the direction of the Hall. Maisie 
was surprised at this attempt at conversation, it 
was so unusual. 

“Miss Lescure is very beautiful,” she answered. 

Harriet scarcely Vaited for her to finish. 

“Yes, and there’s others that think the same; 
there’s a gentleman that lives not so far off neither, as 
loves the very ground the furrin lady walks on. 
It’s he as come after father, may be half an hour 
ago, an’ now he’s gone across the meadows to find 
him. Mr. Stanmore he was in a takin’ about that 
mare.” 

Maisie had turned her head away before the words 
were all said : 

“Good-by, Harriet; tell your father I am sorry to 
have missed him.” 

Miss Derrick felt bewildered as she went on 
toward the lane; something was urging her to go 
back to the Hall ; even when she reached the Vicar- 
age she longed to pass it by. She stood still and 
smiled at her own fancies. She had come out chiefly 
to deliver Miss Savvay’s message to the vicar, it 
would be absurd not to leave it. 

The vicar was not at home, and Maisie was 
obliged to go in to see Miss Auricula. 

Miss Auricula was a tall, stiff-figured woman of 
doubtful age, with auburn hair frizzed over her fore- 
head, and faint-colored blue eyes. Something in 
the face suggested a derived beauty, possibly from 
a handsome grandmother — beauty which had become 
faded in transmission, although its owner believed in 


114 


iMAtSlE DERR I Cl*, 


its existence, and valued herself extremely on the 
possession of a hectic complexion and a high- 
bridged nose. 

“You left Miss Savvay well, I hope,” she said 
graciously. 

Maisie Derrick had taken a higher place in Miss 
Auricula's opinion because she had friendly rela- 
tions with Captain Wentworth’s aunt. The young 
vicar’s devotion to Maisie was a constant vexation 
to his elder sister; she thought him ill-judged. Miss 
Derrick was Mr. Yardon’s granddaughter, but that 
was not much. Mr. Yardon was not so very old; 
he was young enough to marry again, and then 
where would be Miss Derrick’s prospects? Miss 
Auricula considered that Maisie was ordinary. She 
was not plain or awkward, but she wanted man- 
ner; she was much too retiring and simple to 
get on in society, and society meant heaven to 
Miss Vernon, who had spent her life in a country 
village, clinging to the fringe of notice accorded her 
by her titled neighbors. 

Miss Auricula did not wish her brother to marry, 
because she liked to rule at the Vicarage; she 
fancied sh^ ruled Figgsmarsh also, but Figgsmarsh 
thought differently; still, if Charles found it neces- 
sary to have a wife, his sister thought he ought to 
choose some one who would sympathize with her, 
and accept her as a permanent institution in the 
Vicarage. Miss Auricula felt that she could toler- 
ate a really beautiful creature like Drusilla Lescure; 
her style and manner seemed perfect ; that was a 


A SHOCK. 


IIS 

girl who would make her way anywhere, and would 
be an ornament wherever she went. Miss Auricula 
was so curious to discover Maisie’s opinion of Mr. 
Yardon’s ward that she hardly had patience to 
listen to Miss Savvay’s message, although at another 
time she would have been delighted to learn that 
Maisie’s friend had decided to shut up her own 
house, and to take up her abode "at the Manor 
House during the autumn with her nephew. 

“I feel so happy about it,” Maisie said. 

Miss Auricula looked at her keenly. 

” I wonder what Captain Wentworth will think of 
your visitor?” she said; ”is she not beautiful? She 
seems already to have turned the heads of all the 
men in Figgsmarsh. I tell my brother that he has 
Miss Lescure on the brain.” 

“She is very beautiful,” Maisie said; “and very 
bright and pleasant.” 

Miss Auricula nodded and smiled ; she had a 
high voice and rather a gushing manner. 

“My dear, you should only hear the men about 
her; they simply worship her. I suppose Captain 
Wentworth will be as devoted as the others; as to 
your friend Mr. Stanmore, he spends half his time 
with her; he is quite fascinated, and they look such 
a handsome pair riding together.” 

Maisie did not betray herself ; she was always on 
guard with Miss Auricula, who had a way of saying 
spiteful things with the best intentions for the moral 
good of her listener. The girl waited even while 
Miss Vernon dilated on the present advantage that 


MAI SIR DERRICK, 


1 16 

would accrue to the neighborhood from the presence 
of Captain Wentworth at the Manor House. When 
the lady paused for breath, Maisie rose and took 
leave. 

Miss Vernon came with her to the door, and then, 
having w^atched Maisie to the gate, she straightened 
her flat back till it looked hollow, and wondered, 
as she returned to her tasteless drawing-room, wdiat 
attraction so likely a young fellow as Mr. Stanmore 
could have found in Maisie Derrick. 

Meanw^hile the girl was going home at a pace that 
soon made her stop to take breath ; but the rapid 
movement helped her spirits, and w^hen she reached 
the gate, her eyes and her cheeks glowed with 
health. 

“Has my grandfather come in?“ Maisie asked, 
when the door was opened. 

“No, ma'am,” Warren said; Maisie was a favor- 
ite with the household, and the man thought that 
his master might have stayed in to w^elcome Miss 
Derrick; he had a shrew^d suspicion that she had not 
been fairly used. He fumbled over the closing of 
the door while the girl crossed the hall ; then he 
said abruptly, as she turned to go into the drawing- 
room, “Miss Lescure's in the garden, ma’am, with 
Mr. Stanmore.” 

Maisie’s heart gave a bound ; she did not stop to 
think, she crossed the room and went out by one of 
the long open windows. The fresh air cooled her 
hot face ; she looked across the lawm, but she could 
not see either DrusilH or Mr. Stanmore, 


A SHOCK. 


I17 

The lawn sloped on for some distance to a sunk 
fence, which divided it from a large meadow planted 
with trees. Maisie walked down to the ha-ha, and 
shaded her eyes as she looked along a path that 
slanted across the meadow till it reached a clump 
of trees. 

While she stood looking, Drusilla came out from 
behind the trees, and moved homeward up the path. 
She walked slowly, with her eyes bent on the 
ground. Maisie went on to some steps at the end of 
the sunk fence, and then forward along the field 
path. Drusilla gave a little start when she saw her. 

“So you have come back,” she said gayly; “I 
knew you would not be long, and I told Mr. Stan- 
more so; but he said he could not wait.” 

She said this glibly, as if she had got it by heart. 

But Maisie was looking at her with such a search- 
ing, direct glance that Drusilla’s eyes drooped ; she 
seemed unable to bear the truth that shone in her 
companion's face. She looked up again almost 
directly, with a curious, questioning expression. 

“I told him it was unkind, because I knew you 
two were old friends,” she said. “I don't care about 
him, you know.” 

Maisie felt a sudden distrust ; nothing had 
happened to change her opinion of Drusilla, and yet 
she felt almost dislike to the lovely, graceful girl. 
She scarcely knew how to answer. 

“Yes, we are very good friends,” she said gravely. 

Drusilla came up to her and pinched her cheek. 
“You are a little angry with me, Maisie dear, but 


ii8 


MA/SIE DERRICK 


it is not just of you ; I do not care for Mr. Stanmore, 
nor do I want to rob you of his friendship. I told 
him more than once just now that he ought to wait 
to see his old friend, but he went off as if I had 
not spoken; do not be vexed, dear; I dare say 
we shall see him to-morrow, he comes here so often. 
He doctors my horse, you know, and he teaches me 
to ride ; I really find him useful, though I do not 
care a bit for him.’' 

Drusilla was surprised at Maisie’s coolness. She 
had made up her mind that there had been some- 
thing between her companion and Mr. Stanmore, 
but though Maisie had flushed for an instant, when 
Drusilla ended she was calm. 

“Do you like riding?’’ she said. 

“No, I am afraid of the horse, and if I fell off 
I might be hurt ; but I like being taught to ride ; Mr. 
Stanmore is very kind. I should not care to ride 
without him. Will you take a walk now, Maisie? 
I will go wherever you like.’’ 

She said this in her most winning tone. 

“No, thank you,’’ Maisie said decidedly. “I am 
very tired ; I think I will keep quiet till dinner time.” 

“She is vexed, although she will not show it,” the 
French girl thought. 

“Dear Maisie,” she said caressingly, “come to my 
room, and I will show you the gown I bought in 
Paris; the woman said it was the newest thing she 
had.” 

“I’m afraid I can’t come to-day.” 

Maisie spoke bluntly ; she felt sorely wounded, and 


A SHOCK, 


I19 

she wanted to be alone. Mr. Stanmore’s avoidance 
seemed so extraordinary, so slighting, that she could 
hardly keep from tears, and she felt she could not cry 
before Drusilla, or allow her a glimpse of her feelings 
on the subject ; she had not known how proud she 
was till the French girl asked her not to be angry. 

“Why should I be angry with her?“ Maisie asked 
herself when she reached her room ; “and yet I am 
very, very angry She has no delicacy, no feeling 
either^ and I am afraid she is not true. Oh, how 
could I think she was nice, just because she is 
lovely !“ 


CHAPTER XIV. 

DISILLUSION. 

Four days had gone by and Mr. Stanmore had 
not come up to the Hall. At first, Maisie felt glad 
that he stayed away ; she was trying to convince 
herself that she had mistaken his feelings for her, and 
she was ashamed of the ideas she had cherished. 
It was comforting to know that she had kept her 
secret; Miss Savvay had probably guessed it, but 
then Miss Savvay was so sympathetic that she had 
also probably shared Maisie’s error. 

But the girl was too real to succeed in the effort 
to convince herself that she had mistaken Mr. Stan- 
more ; she could not forget his looks and manner 
during that last meeting, and as she allowed herself 
to dwell on them her spirits rose, and she became 
conscious of injustice toward him; yes, she had 
been unjust and jealous also; it was only natural 
that he should admire so beautiful a creature as 
Drusilla. 

Maisie’s meeting with her grandfather was formal; 
she was more than ever timid with the strange, stern 
man as she saw the fascination which Drusilla ex- 
ercised over him. The French girl teased him, 
laughed at him, clapped her hands gayly if he spoke 
crossly; it seemed to Maisie that her loveliness had 
^ weird and uncanny influence; for Mr. Yardon 


120 


DISILLUSION, 


I2I 


always spoke more harshly to his granddaughter when 
he turned to her from her bewitching companion. 

In some ways it was pleasant to have Drusilla to 
talk to, but Maisie knew that she preferred the old 
life to the keen mortifications which seemed to 
come to her through Miss Lescure. Maisie had 
always arranged the flowers for the table, and she 
did it fairly well, but the day after her return Mr. 
Yardon told her she had better give up this duty. 

‘'Miss Lescure has a natural talent for such trifles,’* 
he said ; “ you had better leave them to her.” 

Maisie was obliged to own that, when Drusilla 
chose to exert it, she had the singular deftness which 
makes the best out of everything it touches; but 
then Drusilla rarely chose to do anything except to 
please herself. Maisie felt uneasy ; she repeated that 
she was jealous and mean; she was fully sensible 
of the French girl’s strange power of fascination; 
and her consciousness of this power made her at 
times dread the effect it might have had on Mr. 
Stanmore. And yet, with the wayward contradic- 
tion of love, the girl blamed herself for her doubts 
and her impatience. Oh, yes, he would come, and 
she should see the same love in his eyes that had 
been there when they parted. 

On this fourth afternoon Drusilla had slipped out 
by herself ; she was going to the Vicarage, and she 
did not want Maisie’s company. She went leisurely 
down the lane, her fair, flower-like face in dazzling 
contrast with the dark folds of her gown and her 
black broad-leaved hat. 


» 122 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


Stanmore was coming up from the village, and as 
he saw her he longed to have her picture as she 
moved out of the shade into the sunshine, and then 
again passed under the crossing branches that almost 
held their own against the golden light above their 
leafage. 

Drusilla did not seem to see him. He pulled off 
his hat, and she gave him a lovely smile. 

'‘Are you going to the Hall?” she said saucily, as 
she darted a look at him. 

‘‘Yes, I was on my way there.” His eyes were 
fixed on her; she smiled again and looked away. 

‘‘I am going to the Vicarage,” she said carelessly. 

‘‘You’ll not be long?” He gave her a jealous 
look; he could not bear to lose a moment of the 
time he had counted on being with her. 

Dusilla smiled slowly, till her whole face beamed 
with amusement. 

‘‘You have forgotten something, Mr. Stanmore; 
you will not miss me to-day — you will have Maisie 
Derrick.” 

‘‘I want you,” he said impatiently. 

She gave her little silvery laugh and shook her 
head. 

‘‘What! Is not one enough? Well, you’ll have 
to be good and patient, and perhaps I’ll come. Oh, 
but” — she pursed up her lips as she looked into 
his eyes — ‘‘I have not told you ; I have such a secret 
my guardian told me this morning — you must not 
tell even your friend Maisie; it is to be a surprise for 
her, Mr, Yitrdon heard from Miss Savvay this monv 


DISILLUSION. 


123 


ing; she says Captain Wentworth is coming to the 
Manor House in less than a week, and she is com- 
ing with him. I am so delighted.” 

Mr. Stanmore did not look pleased. She saw he 
was frowning at her. 

“Why should you be delighted?” he said. “You 
do not know either Miss Savvay or her nephew; 
they are nothing to you.” 

Drusilla clapped her hands. 

“Fancy saying that to me! I like change; new 
things are always much nicer than old ones. I have 
•been simply dying fora little variety. Can’t you 
imagine what it will be to me to see a real English 
captain? I have made up my mind to adore Captain 
Wentworth, a soldier and a gentleman ; why, what 
more can a man be?” 

Stanmore looked so very angry that she stopped. 

“Now you are angry; please forgive me” — she 
was penitent and ashamed, he thought. “I suppose 
I have talked nonsense ; it was your fault, though ; 
you provoked me by looking cross. I must go. 
Don’t try to stop me. Good-b}^” 

She nodded and hurried b\^ him like a flash of light, 
her bright eyes and lovely mouth smiling a^ she 
passed. 

Stanmore could hardly keep himself from following 
as he looked after her. He had resolved that morn- 
ingto go up and see Maisie Derrick; he told himself 
he had never said a word to her beyond the limits 
of friendship, though he had fancied once that he 
cared for her; but she had a right to expect him to 


MAISIE DERklCK, 


1 24 

go and see her. A half-resolve had come as he left 
home to remain passive and to see the effect pro- 
duced on him by this renewal of friendship ; he was 
haunted by a dim suspicion that a glamour had been 
cast on him of late — an enchantment which might 
prove itself fleeting and unreal under the steadfast 
eyes in which, only a few weeks ago, he had read 
such sweetness and such trust. 

As he climbed the hill this resolve had gained 
strength ; and then he had met Drusilla Lescure, 
and she had again bewitched him. He had never 
thought her so charming; but, indeed, every time 
he saw her she revealed some new power of attrac- 
tion. Drusilla’s singular quickness, and her gift of 
acquisitiveness, had made her profit largely by her 
intercourse with Mr. Yardon, and also with Maisie; 
and to-day Stanmore had found her irresistible. 
What she had told him about Captain Wentworth 
had turned the young man’s thoughts in a new di- 
rection. The idea of seeing Maisie was obscured by 
a dread of the captain ’s advent. Stanmore had 
plenty of self-reliance in regard to his profession, and 
his readiness to grasp the opportunities of life ; but he 
had little personal conceit ; in his own eyes he con- 
sidered he should have a poor chance with Drusilla be- 
side this soldier. He went up the last bit of the hill 
moodily, with his eyes bent on the ground. He did 
not see that he had reached the gate of the Hall, 
and he started at the sound of Mr. Yardon’s voice. 

“Hullo! What has been the matter, man?’’ 
He smiled as he stood at the gate. “You have 


DlSILLVSlOh\ 125 

made yourself so scarce that I thought you were 
away from the village.” 

“I have been meaning to come up to see Miss 
Derrick,” Stanmore said gravely; and then he hesi- 
tated and grew confused under the malicious ex- 
pression in his companion's dark eyes. 

“Ah!” Mr. Yardon seemed amused. “Did you 
meet my ward just now?” 

“Yes, 1 met her.” And then the young fellow 
added : “I hear you are going to have a neighbor 
at last at the Manor House.” 

“Yes,” Mr. Yardon said slowly; “I fancy Captain 
Wentworth will find his way here. I told Miss Les- 
cure this morning that she will soon have him sigh- 
ing for her. He won't shilly-shally, mind you.” 

“He!” said Stanmore sharply; “why, I understand 
he is an invalid — a man with a broken constitution, 
and a mortgaged estate. He cannot think of marry- 
ing!” 

Mr. Yardon laughed, and opened the gate. 

“Come in,” he said ; “remember the dog in the 
manger, Stanmore; and what's this proverb, ‘He 
who will not when he may' — you know how it 
ends. Go your ways, young man ; go your ways. 
Even to please you, I cannot shut my doors against 
Captain Wentworth.” 

They had reached the Hall door, and Mr. Yardon 
waved his hand toward it, but Stanmore drew back. 

“I fancy I shall find Miss Derrick in the garden,” 
he said ; and without waiting he passed through an 
opening in the shrubbery on the right to a winding 


126 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


path that led to the lawn. He had caught a glimpse 
of a white gown among the shrubs while he listened 
angrily to Mr. Yardon, and he was glad of this ex- 
cuse for leaving him. 

Stanmore found Maisie walking up and down the 
path below the drawing-room windows. She turned 
at the sound of footsteps, and a glad, happy look 
showed on her face when she saw him. 

Stanmore held her hand an instant while he asked 
her how she was, and how she had enjoyed her visit ; 
but even in that brief time Maisie missed something 
she had been used to from his smile and from his 
eyes, and the next minute, as he dropped her hand, 
he looked grave. He wished he had not exposed 
himself to this trial. There was no change in 
Maisie, and yet he felt a sharp pain at his heart; 
he asked himself if this girl’s eyes had always held 
that deep look of love when they met his; he 
thought that he could not have forgotten it if he 
had seen it there. 

He walked beside her in a trouble that felt like 
remorse, for he could only pity her; she was as sweet, 
as steadfast as ever, but his pulses did not quicken 
as he looked at her; she was his dear friend, his 
sister — that was all. The, trouble he felt Avas for her. 

Maisie broke the silence by asking if the railway 
line was progressing to his satisfaction. She looked 
so calm as she spoke that Stanmore felt relieved. 
He thought he had perhaps mistaken the pleasant 
glow of friendship for a warmer feeling. 


DISILLUSION. . 127 

“I am a coxcomb after all/' he thought; and it 
was a great relief to accept the conviction. 

“I hope you left Miss Savvay well/' he said. 

Maisie's face brightened. 

“Yes, thank you, and she thinks she may perhaps 
spend this autumn at the Manor House. Will not 
that be pleasant for me?” she. said smiling. 

“1 suppose so then urged by something stronger 
than his own will, which had determined to avoid 
this topic, he added nervousl}^: “But you are not so 
lonely as 3^011 used to be?” 

Maisie’s face changed as he spoke ; he fancied she 
raised her head a little stiffly, as she looked directly 
into his eyes. 

“You mean I have Miss Lescure for a companion. 
She is very bright, but Miss Savvay is such a dear 
old friend.” - 

Stanmore winced ; it seemed as if the words were 
meant purposely for him. 

“I fancied,” he said indifferently; “that you would 
have preferred a companion of your own age.” 

Maisie gave him a quick, impatient glance. 

He was not looking at her, but in the direction of 
the lane, though the shrubberies that bordered the 
lawn and the tall trees beyond them intercepted an^" 
direct view of it. 

The girl's spirit rose. She had done nothing to 
cause his changed manner, and his evident indiffer- 
ence toward her made her rebellious against his 
implied advice* 


12 ;'. 


MAlSIk DERRICKS 


“I have often told you I am old-fashioned,’’ she 
said coldly ; “there are certainly a good many years 
between Miss Savvay and me, but I fancy we were 
brought up in the same ways and habits wdien w'e 
w^ere children ; Miss Lescure is a foreigner, and — and 
there can never be the same sympathy between us.” 

Stanmore knew very w^ell the meaning of her 
words, and they irritated him the more because of 
the slight absence of refinement he had now and 
then observed in Drusilla. 

He said very coldly: 

“I should have fancied you would be superior to 
a mere national prejudice.” 

Maisie flushed with vexation ; something w^arned 
her to be silent, or else to make a soothing answ^er, 
but she would not listen to the warning. 

“I suppose we all like to choose our own friends,” 
she said; “I cannot put aside an old friend, just to 
set a new one in her place.” 

They had reached the edge of the sunk fence at 
the far end of the lawn. A little summer-house 
stood at the corner, facing toward the park-like 
meadow^ beyond. They stood a moment, and then 
turned and came back in silence. Neither of them 
looked at the other. 

Stanmore bent his head. Maisie’s words had been 
too full of suggestion to be answered. He was more 
angry with himself than with his coinpanion, but he 
was pained that she could stoop to reproach. 

She felt as if she must hurry aw’ay and hide herself 
from him and from every one. The words had 


DISILLUSION, 




scarcely been spoken before she saw the meaning her 
companion might find in them. She had been angry 
with him for insisting that she should make a friend 
of Drusilla, but he would understand that she 
meant to reproach him for his inconstancy. She 
could not speak, she was too much crushed even to 
find a pretext for leaving her companion. She 
walked on in dumb misery till they again reached the 
broad raised walk below the drawing-room window. 


CHAPTER XV. 

MR. YARDON INTERFERES. 

Warren came round the angle of the house 
which was masked by the shrubberies through which 
Stanmore had passed to join Maisie on the lawn. 

The stolid-faced butler was watching what he was 
pleased to call “the game“ with intense interest; he 
and the other servants greatly preferred Miss Derrick 
to Miss Lescure, but they also preferred their in- 
terest to their likings, and it was easy to see which of 
the two young ladies ruled Mr. Yardon. 

Warren’s bow was extra deferential. 

“Mr. Yardon wishes to speak to you, ma’am.” 
He waited as if to follow Miss Derrick to the house. 

“I will say good-by for the present,” Maisie said 
in a timid voice, and Stanmore held out his hand. 

“Good-by,” but he spoke unwillingly; he was 
already sorry for the vexation he knew he had 
caused, a few more words might have set it right, 
and yet he could hardly bring himself to ask Maisie 
to come back to him. “I will wait a little while,” he 
said. 

As soon as Maisie had disappeared into the 
shrubbery, Warren came back to Mr. Stanmore. 

“I was to say, sir,” he said pompously, “that if 
you are not in a particular hurry, Mr. Yardon will 
be glad if you’ll wait here for him.” 


130 


MR, YAKDON INTERFERES, 


131 

“Very well,” Stanmore said. He frowned as the 
man left him ; he was ashamed of his hope that by 
waiting he might again see Drusilla. This hope 
had been very present when he reached the gate; it 
now seemed a sort of insult to Maisie’s vexation. 

“They do not like one another, that is plain,” he 
said. He remembered with satisfaction that Mr. 
Yardon’s study was in the front of the house. If 
Drusilla joined him in the garden, there would be 
no one to watch their meeting. 

Maisie had gone straight to the study, and she sat 
there still; she was feeling greatly puzzled. It was 
so incomprehensible that a practical man like her 
grandfather could send for her when she was en- 
gaged with a visitor just to discuss a household 
matter of no present moment, and even when he had 
told her his wishes about getting a boy from the 
village to serve as under-gardener, he kept her 
chatting about trifles. He was, however, singularly 
gracious, he even seemed to be enjoying his talk. 

Maisie felt that her attention wandered; already 
she was sorry for the vexation she had shown in 
the garden, and she resolved, if possible, to see Mr. 
Stanmore again and try to efface the impression she 
feared he had received. But time was passing, it was 
possible that he had grown tired of waiting. Maisie 
had become feverish with impatience, when there 
came a pause in Mr. Yardon’s talk; he was looking 
very intently at her, but with a doubtful, curious 
expression. 

‘T will go now, grandf^her,” the girl ro?e as she 


132 


Mai SIR DERRICK. 


spoke. “I was talking to Mr. Stanmore when you 
sent for me, and I want to go back; he said he 
would wait.” 

A smile passed across Mr. Yardon’s face, but it 
left a bitterness behind it. Maisie shrank under his 
glance; she felt seared like a spring leaf by the 
breath of the east wind. 

“Exactly so,” Mr. Yardon said. “I knew perfectly 
well, Maisie, who was your companion when I sent 
for you, but Mr. Stanmore does not come to see 
you, my girl — you did very well when there was no 
one else ; but this is a different matter, he has 
found metal more attractive here of late. Sit you 
down again ; if you go back now you will, I think, 
find 3^ourself one too many for the situation.” 

Maisie had reddened to the roots of her hair, and 
for the first time Mr. Yardon saw a flash of angry 
light in her eyes. This gratified him ; he was 
pleased to find that she had a spirit, it gave his 
pugnacious nature something to fight with. He 
threw his head back and looked at her critically; 
on the whole he thought that she was a striking 
young woman, with that bright color on her cheeks 
and the glow of light in her eyes. 

“I do not understand you.” Maisie was no longer 
shy, she spoke with some heat ; he was her grand- 
father, but she felt that he had no right to sit enjoy- 
ing her confusion. 

“I will explain, if you will have the goodness to 
sit down and listen.” Maisie could not help winc- 
ing at the sarcasm in his voice, should have 


MR. YARDON INTERFERES. 


133 


fancied my meaning was clear enough to an un- 
prejudiced listener, but there, seemingly, we differ. 
During your absence, my young friend Stanmore 
has become attached to Miss Lescure; they see 
each other constantly. I fancy the liking is mutual. 
You are placed with your back to the window and 
therefore did not see Drusilla come in just now. I 
did, and she has turned into the shrubbery walk. I 
ask you, Maisie, what claim have you to disturb a 
meeting between these two?” 

“Do you mean me to understand that Mr. Stan- 
more is engaged to her?” Maisie spoke in a dull, 
hard voice; she was thinking of the way in which 
she had just now spoken of Drusilla. 

Mr. Yardon paused; he had kept his eyes fixed 
on her face, and he was surprised by its calmness; 
he began to respect his granddaughter more than 
he could have thought possible. Maisie’s shyness 
and constraint toward him had made him consider 
her nervous, and a nervous woman was to Mr. 
Yardon an excitable, hysterical creature, the slave of 
impulse and emotion. It did not occur to him that 
Maisie Derrick might be quite another person in a 
congenial and sympathetic atmosphere; it may be 
that his lack of imagination made him incapable of 
sympathy with needs of which he had no practical 
experience, and it may be also that part of his dis- 
like to his grandchild rose from the difficulty he had 
found in understanding her. She did not fit his 
theory of what a woman was sure to do, say, and 
think in such and such circumstances, therefore 


134 


maYsie derrick. 


there was something wrong about her as a woman. 
The feeling of respect that she now created was not 
yielded to the woman, but to that which he con- 
sidered a masculine firmness in repressing the 
natural feelings of her sex. His heart did not 
warm toward her, but his judgment appreciated her 
behavior. 

‘T have no reason to suppose that either Mr. 
Stanmore or my ward would take so decided a- step 
without apprising me that they had done so,” he 
said very formally ; ”but,” he went on in a more 
genial voice, ‘T should say it might come to pass 
any day, and I for one am ready to give a hearty 
consent to such a well assorted marriage.” 

Maisie did not grow pale, the strong constraint 
she was putting on herself kept the color flaming on 
her cheeks, and Mr. Yardon’s last words had in one 
way relieved her. Her own nature was too noble to 
believe that her grandfather could continue to speak 
in this way if he really guessed the pain he was 
inflicting. A strange, resolute feeling was taking 
possession of the girl. Mr. Stanmore had changed, 
but she had not thought he loved Drusilla. It was 
possible, nay, it was evident that her grandfather 
wished for this marriage and that he would do his 
best to bring it about; but that did not prove that 
it would make Stanmore and Drusilla happy. 
Maisie saw in the man the ideal she loved, the ideal 
to whom she felt herself so inferior; she seemed to 
know by a sure instinct that when the first glamour 
was past Stanmoa' would be miserable with this 


MR, YA RDON IN TER RE RES. 1 3 5 

French girl. The old fancy, the power of touch of 
the angelic spear, seems to live again in a pure and 
truthful nature, a nature that does not easily suspect, 
yet which, if it realizes that its trust is deceived, 
sees at once through the flimsy veils of falsehood — 
they are no hindrance to its direct vision. 

While Mr. Yardon spoke of this attachment, 
Maisie remembered the slighting terms in which 
Drusilla had spoken of Mr. Stanmore and her 
assertion that she did not care for him. There was 
falsehood somewhere, Maisie decided, and it might 
not be too late to unmask it. She had no hope of 
regaining Stanmore’s love, she doubted whether she 
ever had it ; but she loved him still and she would 
try and save him from being deceived. She looked 
steadily at Mr. Yardon. 

‘Tf they are not engaged,” she said, ‘T do not 
mind disturbing them for a moment; I said I would 
go back.” 

She w^ent to the door, opened it and closed it be- 
hind her, before her grandfather had recovered from 
his surprise. 

When he did, he also went to the door and 
followed Maisie. 

He went slowly, however; his grim sense of 
humor told him that there might be something 
amusing to witness if he gave the scene time for 
development. 


CHAPTER XVL 

‘'SILENCE GIVES CONSENT/’ 

Those minutes which had seemed to Maisie so 
long and wearisome had been passing at double- 
winged speed to the young pair in the garden. 

When Maisie left him, Mr. Stanmore had longed 
to recall her; he seemed to think of so much he 
wanted to sa}^ and he also wished to speak more 
kindly — to undo, if that were possible, some of the 
vexation which he was conscious of having caused. 

He was sure that Maisie had not meant to give 
him pain ; she did not know his feelings for Drusilla, 
and she had spoken as to an old friend of a new 
acquaintance. As Mr. Stanmore reflected, a smile 
spread over his face ; he very much doubted 
whether Drusilla had spoken of his frequent visits 
to her or of her meetings with him on the common. 

He turned at the end of the v;alk and saw 
Drusilla’s tall, graceful figure and the large drooping 
black hat coming from the shrubbery. She smiled 
as she came forward a few steps, then she stood 
still and he joined her; she looked even lovelier 
than before, for she had a tinge of color and her 
eyes were full of expression. 

“You look,” he said, as he hurried up to her, “as 
if you had had some pleasant adventure or had heard 
some pleasant news; may I not hear what it is?” 

136 


SILENCE GIVES CONSENT. 


137 


Her eyes were mischievous as she fixed them on 
him. 

'‘You seem to take it for j^^ranted that what is 
pleasant to me will please you also; I, on the con- 
trary, am not so sure about it — you will perhaps be 
crosser than you were in the lane.” She shook her 
head, and her lips seemed to mock him. 

“But you will tell me for all that,” he said im- 
pulsively; then, moved out of himself by the arch 
beauty, that seemed to defy him to resist its power, 
“I claim a right to share your joys and griefs too — 
if you ever had any,” he added in a more doubtful 
tone. 

They had turned the angle of the lawn near the 
house, and going up the flower-bordered path be- 
side it, had nearly reached the summer-house at its 
further corner. 

“You English make so much fuss about every- 
thing.” Drusilla had apparently forgotten her com- 
panion ; she was looking at the flower-border, gay 
with the spring darlings of the year, “They make a 
fuss about those little flowers, and yet long before I 
came here we had them, and finer ones too, growing 
in the valleys near us without any care or trouble.” 

Stanmore thought she was adorable, so fresh and 
innocent. 

“I agree with you,” he said, “that we English 
people cumber our lives with much unnecessary fuss 
about trifles; but I fancy we are obliged to shelter 
some of these plants to make up for the snow-cover- 
ing they get abroad in the winter,” 


MAI SIR DERRICK. 


13^ 

Drusilla raised her eyebrows. For the first time 
she found Mr. Stanmore dull — she thought his inter- 
view with Maisie had changed him. 

“I will tell you my news, if I can sit down,’' she 
said. '‘I am so tired — that hill is so steep.” 

They had reached the summer-house and Stan- 
more could hardly believe he heard rightly. He 
had tried more than once to get a talk in this 
summer-house with his lovely companion, and she 
had always tried to avoid it ; to-day, however, Miss 
Lescure was so sensible of the change in his manner, 
that she determined to try her power. It was 
absurd to suppose that he could prefer Maisie to 
her — and yet he had changed. 

Drusilla considered that he belonged to her; he 
was her first lover and she would not yield him to 
anyone. She had scarcely considered her own feel- 
ings toward Mr. Stanmore, but then it must be con- 
fessed that Drusilla always preferred ‘receiving to 
giving, and she resolved again that she would not, as 
she expressed it, “go halves” about Mr. Stanmore 
with Maisie Derrick. She gave him a charming 
glance as she bent her graceful head to avoid the 
straying rose spray that had spread from the larch 
poles of the summer-house to the thatch above. 

She waited till Stanmore had placed himself be- 
side her. 

‘'Are you ready to listen?” — there was a mis- 
chievous light in her eyes, though her tone was 
quiet. 

“I am all attention,” said Stanmore, 


SiLENCiL GIVES COKSEETi' 139 

‘‘Well then, do you remember the hews I told 
you in the lane?’' 

The eager flash in his eyes answered her, and 
without giving Stanmore an opportunity to reply, 
she continued, “Well, I think this is better.” 

She stopped abruptly; Mr. Stanmore was frown, 
ing, till he looked very angry. 

“What is it?” he said with impatience. 

Drusilla shrugged her shoulders and moved a 
little away from him. 

“You see I was right, I am afraid you are a — 
what is this word that you have said about my 
guardian — I know,” she went on with a smile, “it 
is a misanthrope; you dislike other people. No, 
you will never understand that I am pleased be- 
cause of Captain Wentworth!” 

“You have already told me about him.” Stan- 
more was looking across the meadow, and he spoke 
sulkily ; he almost hated Drusilla for trifling with 
him. 

“Yes,” she said slowly, for she enjoyed his 
jealousy, though she was half afraid lest he should 
abruptly leave her if she provoked him beyond 
bearing; “I told you Captain Wentworth and his 
aunt were to come next week. Well, I saw the 
vicar just now, and he told me that Captain Went- 
worth is expected to-day — now do you understand 
how glad I am?” 

Her eyes were full of sunny laughter; the look of 
misery in his face did not check her. 

“Have you no feelings?” he said angrily — so 


MAisiE Derrick. 


146 

very angrily that a bright tinge of color flew across 
Drusilla’s cheeks as though she had received a 
sudden blow. She rallied, however, but her eye- 
lashes twinkled as if to keep back tears. 

'‘I feel when people are unjust,” she said. 

Her voice sounded so pathetic that Stanmore was 
at once penitent. He had been brutal to this loveh% 
fragile creature — brutal, too, just when he wanted 
her to cling to him as a safeguard against the 
worldly spendthrift who was coming to disturb their 
peace. 

He took her hand and tenderly kissed it. 

“You darling,” he whispered; “but you will for- 
give me; I love you so, dear girl, that I can’t bear 
to hear you even speak to anyone else.” 

Drusilla blushed, and her eyes fell under his. 
She was a little startled by Stanmore’s suddenness, 
but it was very nice to be sure that he loved her. 
She had not time to think ; the young man went on 
speaking — he poured out his love in rapid, im- 
petuous words that fairly carried her away and made 
her feel as if she were out of breath while she 
listened. 

Stanmore’s arm had come around her, and she 
let him draw her close against his breast ; but 
Drusilla was not completely absorbed by his love- 
story, for even while he kissed her she heard another 
sound outside the summer-house. 

There were footsteps, and then Maisie’s voice said, 
“Drusilla, are you there?” 


SILENCE GIVES CONSENTS t4^ 

Drusilla pushed Stanmore away and rose up from 
the bench. 

“It is Maisie.” She looked curiously at her lover, 
and then she went out of the summer-house. 

Stanmore was too happy to feel disturbed, but 
he did not at once follow Drusilla. 

When he did come out Maisie was some way up 
the walk, and Mr. Yardon stood beside Drusilla, 
clasping the girl’s hand in his. 

“What is all this about, my young friend?’’ he 
said, and he looked from one face to the other as if 
he were completely puzzled. Stanmore had dreaded 
this moment; Mr. Yardon had encouraged his at- 
tentions to Drusilla as much as he had formerly 
discouraged them, and yet the young fellow knew 
that his host was capricious and contradictory; he 
might even wish to leave the girl free till she had 
seen Captain Wentworth, but he answered the 
question frankly : 

“It means that I want you to give me your ward ; 
she consents, so you have no choice,’’ he said gayly, 
as he saw a smile curving the old man’s lips. 

“Is that so?’’ Mr. Yardon put his long brown 
fingers under the girl’s chin and looked at her. 

Drusilla pouted. 

“I did not say yes,’’ she said shyly; “he takes my 
consent for granted.’’ 

“You should have said ‘No,’’’ Mr. Yardon said, 
laughing; “it’s an old story that silence gives con- 
sent.’’ 


t4^ 


MAtSIE DEkRtCIx. 


He put out his hand and shook Stanmore*s 
heartily. *‘I am glad it is settled,” he said, ”on all 
accounts. Kiss me, Drusilla, and then go and get 
my glasses; I’ve left them on my desk.” 

She darted off like a fawn, glad that Maisie had 
already disappeared within the house. Drusilla 
dreaded lest she should meet Warren; she was 
ashamed of her own agitation; she thought it must 
show on her face, and she was vexed with herself for 
feeling it. She had been wishing that Mr. Stan- 
more would propose to her, because that seemed to 
be the only way of keeping him to herself, but she 
had rehearsed the proposal, and it had ended quite 
differently. She had planned that her lover should 
be more humble, and she had not meant him to feel 
sure of her acceptance. 

It was Mr. Yardon’s fault for breaking in upon 
them, and she was conscious that the sound of 
Maisie’s voice had made her unwilling to vex her 
lover. 

She went up to her room and seated herself to 
think. 

“It is not yet decided,” she said, pouting her full 
under lip. “I do not see that I belong to Mr. Stan- 
more because he has taken me by surprise; it must 
be wrong to take the first man who asks — there is 
no choice in that, it is the act of a simpleton.” 

Drusilla sat thinking, but she did not look 
thoughtful. Her forehead remained smooth, and 
her delicately marked eyebrows did not draw 
together; her mother had taught the girl from a 


SILENCE GIVES CON SEN TE M3 

very early age that her face was her most precious 
possession, and that a lined forehead and a wrinkled 
mouth were signs of careless bringing up. 

But serene and lovely as she looked, Drusilla was 
thinking deeply ; her thoughts at last took the form 
of a decision. 

She would permit Stanmore to think himself 
engaged to her on two conditions. The attachment 
between them was to be kept a secret from every 
one but Mr. Yardon, and she was to be left free to 
do as she pleased ; as free as she had been when she 
reached Yardon Hall. For an instant she wondered 
about Maisie, and then she remembered that the 
girl had been too far off to hear the talk between 
her grandfather and Luke Stanmore. 

“It will be much more comfortable if she does 
not know ; it will spare her feelings — and — and — it 
will leave me so much freer.’’ 

Drusilla gave a sigh of relief as she got up from 
her sofa and looked out of her window — it was at 
the side of the house, but the lawn could be seen 
from it. There was Mr. Yardon alone, pacing up 
and down, his head drooping forward and his hands 
clasped behind him. 

Drusilla took up her hat from the sofa, put it on 
before the glass, and then went softly downstairs 
and into the garden by a side door near the offices. 

She came so softly across the grass that she had 
slipped her hand under Mr. Yardon’s arm before 
he knew she was near him. She pinched his arm as 
he started ; she looked up at him affectionately. 


144 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


‘‘You startled me, you mischievous puss,” he said. 
“Well, you seem to have made a rapid business of it.” 

“Hush,” she said quietly, ‘‘I am going to tell 
you,” and she led him down to the border of the 
sunk fence at the farther corner from the summer- 
house. 

Then she let go his arm and drew herself up till the 
old man smiled at her pretty, dignified manner. 

“You see,” she said ingenuously, ‘‘we were inter- 
rupted before I had time to answer, and — and he 
took my consent for granted.” 

Mr. Yardon frowned; he looked red and angry 
too. 

‘‘Stop,” he said, ‘‘you can't say ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ in 
the same breath, girl. A fellow like Stanmore 
wouldn’t have made a mistake unless he had good 
reason.” 

Drusilla shook her head and pretended to wring 
her long slim fingers. 

‘‘You English people are so literal,” she said, 
‘‘even the best of you. Dear me, I only want you 
to listen.” There was an imploring tone in her 
voice, for Mr. Yardon was looking, as she had not 
seen him look, hard and inaccessible. 

She waited, but he did not soften. Drusilla gave 
a little sigh ; she had to forego some of her scheme 
in that momentary waiting. 

‘‘I do not know what you are making a fuss 
about,” she said with some scorn. ‘‘I have not said 
that I want to alter things; dear me, no. I will 
tell you what I want; in France, you know, a man 


SlLEiVCE GIVES CONSE.VTE 145 

does not propose his own feelings; he — ” she turned 
her head away till the flap of her hat screened her 
face from him — “he — speaks to some one else — I have 
been too much surprised, and — and I want you to 
go after Mr. Stanmore and say to him that for the 
present — I wish him not to speak of this ; do you 
understand, guardian?” 

“I hear what you say” — Mr. Yardon still looked 
stern ; “but I cannot enter into this till you give me 
a reason. You are in England ; I have told you that 
your father was English born, and Mr. Stanmore is 
English; I don’t want any foreign methods here — 
the English way seems to me the best — if you could 
give me a reason.” She heard his voice soften and 
she looked once more serene. 

“Isn’t it reason enough,” she said demurely, still 
keeping her face hidden, for she could not keep grave, 
“if you say I am shy and I don’t want the servants, 
and the village people, and Miss Auricula to stare at 
me, and — and surely Maisie needn’t know just yet — 
I do not want to be fussed about ? ” 

Mr. Yardon’s face relaxed into a smile, but he was 
not satisfied. 

“Suppose Stanmore does not agree?” he said. 

“I care far more that you should;” she suddenly 
turned to him with a beaming smile. “You cannot 
think how you frightened me just now; my heart is 
still beating much faster than usual. If you are will- 
ing, then, of course, he will be ; he cannot go against 
us two, can he?” 

Mr. Yardon thought that, if she looked at Mr. 


146 


MAISIE DEkRlCl^. 


Stanmore as she was looking at him, there would not 
be much chance that he would refuse any request 
she made him. He felt a very unusual compunc- 
tion at having frightened the sweet winning child, as 
he called her to himself ; he patted her on the shoul- 
der by way of making up, and Drusilla looked 
pleased and dutiful, and took care not to show the 
amusement his awkward petting afforded her. 

“Well,” he said, “you two had better settle it be- 
tween you ; it is not my business.” 

He turned away, but she held his arm fast be- 
tween her slender palms. 

“Oh, please listen, you are my guardian, so it 
must be your business to help me. I want you to 
see,” she went on quickly, “that there’s no time to 
be lost, and you are the only person who has a right 
to speak to — to Mr. Stanmore. Please go to him 
now, directly. Oh, yes, please do, and ask him to 
keep this a secret; he must, or ” 

Her eyes sparkled with impatience, and a pretty 
flush had spread over her face. 

“Hush!” said Mr. Yardon; “do not threaten — a 
woman shouldn’t let herself do anything so ugly.” 

Drusilla stared at him, and her arms fell to her 
sides. 

“That is what mother used to say,” she said, “when 
I was cross.” 

She was startled by the sudden change in his face ; 
he gave her a suspicious glance of scrutiny, then he 
shrugged his shoulders and turned away. 

“She was probably only repeating what had been 


SILENCE GIVES CONSENT: 


147 


said to her” — he spoke in his most cynical tone. 
“There, be at peace, child — you shall have your way, 
and be careful not to tease me with questions.” 

He left her standing on the lawn, but she crept 
softly after him when he was out of sight, and she 
smiled as she heard the click of the outer gates. He 
was going down to the village, and she felt sure that 
Mr. Stanmore would have to consent to keep her 
secret for the present. 

Drusilla danced with glee in the shrubbery path ; 
she knew that no one could see her. “The afterward 
must take care of itself;” her lovely eyes were shin- 
ing with glee. “I wish I was not engaged, but then, 
perhaps, if I had said no, he might have gone back 
to Maisie.” 

As she went into the house, Miss Lescure decided 
that'she was much too young to marry; her life was 
only just beginning, and it seemed to be full of 
delightful possibilities. 


CHAPTER XVIL 

MR. YARDON IS TROUBLED. 

Drusilla was a close observer of words and 
looks, but she rarely troubled herself about the feel- 
ings of others, and although she had the idea that 
there had been some kind of attachment between 
Luke Stanmore and Maisie, it did not occur to her 
that what had passed in the summer-house would 
prove a shock to the girl when it came to her knowl- 
edge. 

Drusilla had been absorbed by the double excite- 
ment of urging her guardian to secure Mr. Stan- 
more's consent to a temporary silence, and also in 
persuading him to pay an early visit to the Manor 
House; she did not notice Maisie’s manner, and she 
went to bed more delighted with her own success 
with Mr. Yardon than by the thought of her engage- 
ment. 

Next morning at breakfast Maisie was the gayest 
of the party ; she laughed so merrily that Mr. Yardon 
looked up from his paper — he wondered whether the 
girl was trying to cover her feelings of defeat, for he 
fancied she must have understood his meaning about 
Stanmore and Drusilla. He had not meant to be 
cruel to his granddaughter; the certainty that there 
was no longer any chance of her marrying Stanmore 
had softened his own feelings toward her; but as he 

148 


MR, YARDON IS TROUBLED. I49 

wished Maisie to remain at the Hall some time 
longer, he considered that it was only fair to tell 
Iter the truth instead of leaving her to discover it. 

He wondered now whether Brasilia had told her 
news; but as soon as Maisie left the room Brasilia 
attacked him. 

'‘You will go to the Manor House this morning, 
guardian, and then you will tell Maisie and me the 
news at lunch. I am dying to hear what the captain 
is like.” 

Mr. Yardon looked up at her as she stood on the 
other side of the table facing him,- the only object 
worth looking at in the long, gloomy room. The 
rare sunshine that visited that side of the house 
came in at breakfast time, and it had concentrated it- 
self on her golden hair, finding out here and there a 
ruddy thread or two which seemed to burn with in- 
cendiary light among the rest. For the first time 
her guardian surveyed the fair creature critically, and 
he fancied that Brasilia’s splendid wealth of hair 
would be yet more splendid if it were simply 
arranged; something about the fussy coronet irri- 
tated him. 

‘‘If Stanmore’s half the fellow I take him for he’ll 
have that altered.” Mr. Yardon also reflected, on 
his way to the Manor House, that Brasilia’s waist 
looked too small for reality. This fact had not 
struck him during Maisie's absence, but now it sug- 
gested itself as another tendency to artificiakhabits. 
He sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and then let his 
head droop forward with the action of a man who 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


150 

resigned himself to the inevitable. He took a path 
across some fields beyond the lawn, a path which 
formed a short cut to the Manor House. 

The man was completely genuine, and yet he had 
not the love for outside nature which so often exists 
with truth of character. A lark, high above, was 
pouring out soul-stirring melody enough to hold a 
listener still and rapt with enjoyment, but Mr. Yar- 
don passed on unheeding it. The almond fragrance 
of the hawthorn blossoms and the tufts of forget- 
me-not below the hedge, turquoise-like in a green 
setting, were as little noted by him as was the ex- 
quisite leafage of some birch trees in a copse at the 
end of the field. Mr. Yardon was even blinder than 
usual; he had not been across. this way for two 
months, and he must have seen that the red mist 
of the interlacing branches was now replaced by 
tenderest green, and that both branches and twigs 
were in a manner effaced by the feathery leafage 
quivering in the sunshine; his thoughts were wholly 
filled with disquietude for which he could not find 
a reason, unless it was that shrinking from change 
which sometimes besets a man as he grows older. 

Mr. Yardon went quickly down the slope the field 
made into the copse, from which a plank bridge 
divided it. 

An hour later he again came in sight, but the ex- 
pression on his face was no longer doubtful. He 
looked red and angry, and as he crossed the single 
plank, he trod so heavily that it seemed possible he 
might dislodge it and send it crashing down the red 


MR, YARDON IS TROUBLED. 151 

sides of the ditch, soft with a coating of last year’s 
leaves, in which the gem-like forget-me-not seemed 
glad to nestle. 

Miss Lescure decided that her guardian would 
lunch at the Manor House, and she and Maisie were 
already seated when he came into the dining-room. 
Drusilla waited until the end of the meal before she 
asked him a question, but when he rose from the 
table, without having uttered a word about his visit, 
she stopped him. 

“Please sit down again,” she said ; “you seem to 
forget that you have not told us what the captain 
is like — did you see him?” 

Maisie looked surprised, she had not heard of the 
captain’s arrival, she fancied that her grandfather 
looked vexed. There crept once more over the girl 
the bewildered feeling that she was living in a world 
of her own, with her eyes closed to what was happen- 
ing in the real world around her. 

“Yes, I saw Captain Wentworth,” Mr. Yardon said 
roughly, “but I cannot see why jw/ should care to hear 
about him, Drusilla. Maisie, now, who might be ex- 
pected to take some interest, does not ask a question.” 

He looked at his granddaughter, and she under- 
stood him to allude to Miss Savvay’s connection 
with the owner of the Manor House as the reason 
of her interest in Captain Wentworth. 

“Has Captain Wentworth arrived? ” she said, “and 
is Miss Savvay with him?” 

The joy sparkling in her face annoyed Mr. 
Yardon. 


152 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


'‘No; Miss Savvay comes later,” he said dryly; 
and he went toward the door. 

But Drusilla reached it before he did, and she set 
her back against it while she looked sweetly at her 
guardian. 

“I am not threatening; on the contrary, I know I 
look as sweet as sugar, considering that I am very 
curious. Do please answer my questions. Is the 
squire tall or short — fair or dark — ugly or hand- 
some? I want to know exactly what he is like.” 

Mr. Yardon tried to frown, but he ended by smil- 
ing. He shook his head at the lovely, pleading 
face. 

“You are a little simpleton,” he said ; “a regular 
baby. There is nothing about Captain Wentworth 
to distinguish him from a score of captains fresh 
from India. He is not tall, he is spare ; he would be 
perhaps fair if he were less sun-bronzed, and he is 
certainly not handsome.” 

Drusilla made a grimace and looked at Maisie. 

“He will adore us both then,” she said softly. 
“Little men always like tall women.” 

“You are talking sad nonsense;” and Mr. Yardon 
looked so ungracious that Drusilla moved aside and 
allowed him to pass out. 

She turned to Maisie with eyes full of mischief. 

“My goodness!” she said it very prettily. “What 
is the meaning of it? Can you explain, my dear 
Maisie, why the name — the very name— of Captain 
Wentworth makes people cross? I spoke of him to 
your friend Mr, Stanmore, and he became at once 


MR. YARDON IS TROUBLED, 


153 


irritable and contnidictory, and now you see how 
cross my guardian is at a mere question — what does 
it mean?” 

thought my grandfather looked worried when 
he came in,” Maisie said gravely ; she felt disturbed 
by Drusilla’s flippancy. 

‘‘You are prudish, Maisie; you looked grave 
when you heard that Miss Savvay had not come 
with her nephew. Why should not two girls do just 
as well as one girl and a chaperone? It must be just 
the same, you dear old frump — we don’t want Miss 
Savvay to take care of us at the Manor House.” 

Maisie laughed. 

‘‘Is that a French idea? In England — ^in the 
country, at any rate — we are still old-fashioned; but 
why are you interested in Captain Wentworth? 
His photograph is not interesting.” 

‘‘Your photo is not interesting, it makes you look 
like a nigger — the only nice thing in it is your hair.” 
She looked critically at the rich, careless brown 
waves as she spoke. ‘‘Perhaps the captain’s photo 
will not be a bit truer to nature than yours is.” 

Maisie felt jarred and out of sympathy with her 
companion ; she was conscious of a wish to get 
away from Drusilla. 

Miss Savvay ’s last words to her had been : 

“Whenever my nephew settles down at the Manor 
House I shall only be a few days in following him.” 

It was such entire relief to feel that she should 
soon have her friend near her — perhaps for weeks to 
come, 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE CAPTAIN AND HIS FRIEND. 

Two men came in by the Hall gates. One of 
them could easily be identified as the absentee 
squire by the sun-bronzed skin Mr. Yardon had 
specified. Captain Wentworth was slightly made, 
neither tall nor short, with a thin face that had the 
placid expression of a plump one. 

Now, as he smiled at his companion, there was a 
momentary glisten in his narrow, green-blue eyes, 
and his pale mustache seemed to quiver with pass- 
ing amusement, but these tokens of feeling subsided 
before his words ended, and once more a pleasant 
vapidity resumed its place. Captain Wentworth 
looked delicate for all his sun-bronzing. He also 
looked refined ; but the strongest impression he 
produced was that of a man who would not covet 
anything which would cost him trouble to possess, 
and who would shrink from being bored more than 
he would shrink from hunger or thirst. His thin 
voice had the sharpness one sometimes hears in a 
woman's. 

“You will have to be careful, I fancy; our friend 
here,” he looked at the Hall as they proceeded up 
the drive, “is said to be strict.” 

His companion gave a hearty, coarse laugh. He 
was tall enough and broad enough to make two 

r54 


THE CAPTAIM AND IIIS ERIEND. ISS 

Captain Wentworths, and his face showed not only 
great, hearty enjoyment of life, but a determined 
will to take all he could of the chances to be found 
in it. His walk across the meadows had given a 
slight tone of brick red to his square face; his ruddy 
hair seemed to curl more crisply, and his red- 
brown eyes glowed as he slowly shook his head. 

“You are prepared to see a beauty here, are you, 
just because your aunt has bestowed that title on a 
girl whom she has never seen. No, my boy; so far 
as my experience goes — some years longer than 
yours does — beauty never appears where we expect 
to see it; you’ll find a really beautiful woman in 
the very last place you would think to find her in. 
There aren’t many about, let me tell you ; I’ve only 
seen a few.’’ 

“Is it worth while to take the trouble to find 
one?’’ the^sharp, thin voice sounded languid. “If a 
first prize is so difficult to discover, a second surely 
does as well.’’ 

“Ah, you don’t mean to marry; I couldn’t put 
up with second-best anything; wait till you have 
seen Beanlands, my good fellow, then you’ll under- 
stand that Beanlands wouldn’t match with a second- 
rate Mrs. Boyd.’’ 

Captain Wentv/orth winced very slightly, but 
Warren had opened the door in answer to their 
knock, and the friends, giving their names as Captain 
Wentworth and Mr. Boyd, were shown into the 
drawing-room. » 

Maisie came in from the library, and received 


MAlS/£ DERRICK, 


15^’ 

them with an ease that surprised and pleased Captain 
Wentworth. His aunt had spoken of Miss Derrick’s 
shyness, but Maisie was rarely shy with strangers, 
whose opinion she did not value. As yet she had 
not formed a high opinion of Captain Wentworth; 
only Miss Vernon had praised him, and it must be 
said that Maisie rarely agreed with Miss Auricula’s 
opinions. 

Captain Wentworth introduced Mr. Boyd, and 
then he began to talk of Miss Savvay and her plan 
of joining them. He had not finished when Mr. 
Yardon came in. He was cordial in his greeting, 
but he soon turned his back on Mr. Boyd and left 
Maisie to entertain him. 

This was not difficult, for Mr. Boyd seemed to be 
able to talk on every subject. He asked her if she 
had traveled, and she had to confess to a limited 
experience of journeys in Switzerland and a couple 
of visits to Paris. 

Her companion, however, seemed to have been 
round the world ; he had visited the East, North 
and South America, and the Japanese Empire. He 
had seen Iceland, the Islands of the Mediterranean; 
he was in the midst of a description of Majorca 
when Mr. Yardon broke in: 

“Maisie, do you know whether Drusilla is in the 
garden?” 

Captain Wentworth’s inquiry for Miss Lescure 
had forced her guardian into this question. 

“She is out walking,” Maisie said. 


THE CAVTAIX AKD HIS EIHEND, 


157 


Mr. Yardon was greatly relieved; he did not wish 
Mr. Boyd to see his ward. The impression of to- 
day had confirmed the opinion he had formed at 
the Manor House, that, though Captain Wentworth 
was a gentleman, Mr. Boyd was only a wealthy 
snob. On his way home her guardian had testily 
decided that Drusilla should be kept out of sight of 
this sensuous-looking millionaire. 

He scarcely knew why he felt so contradictory on 
the subject; he had long ago seen that Drusilla was 
fond of admiration, but then Mr. Yardon would 
have said, had he been questioned on this point, 
that love of admiration was only natural in so 
beautiful a creature. 

Just at this moment Drusilla came slowly across 
the grass toward the drawing-room window, which 
opened on to the terrace. 

“Ah,” said Captain Wentworth languidly, “here 
is, I fancy, the lady you are asking about,” 

The captain looked hard at the advancing figure. 

Drusilla's face was as yet shadowed by her broad- 
leaved hat. Mr. Boyd did not hear his friend's re- 
mark; he went on talking to Maisie, too much 
absorbed by the details of his last yachting voyage 
to be stopped by interruption. 

Drusilla came in at the window next the library, 
and Captain Wentworth's eyes glistened consider- 
ably as Mr. Yardon introduced him to his ward. 

The slender, golden-haired creature held herself 
far more stiffly than she did when she was intro- 


J\/A/S/£ DERRICK, 


15 ' 


duced to Luke Staninore; her eyelids did not droop 
under the captain’s gaze; indeed, she returned it 
with a sort of curious but friendly interest. 

She went on smiling, but she was disappointed ; 
she liked a man to look strong and capable — the 
captain was, she fancied, as weak as a woman. He 
had a pleasant face, and the courtesy of his tone de- 
lighted her, as he said he hoped they should have 
the pleasure of seeing her at the Manor House when 
Miss Savvay came into residence. 

Drusilla placed herself on the sofa by the window, 
and the captain sat beside her. Mr. Yardon thus 
found himself shut out of the talk, and he smiled at 
the girl’s self-assertion. She took her place as 
mistress of the house as Maisie had never done. 

“When do you expect your aunt?” he heard her 
say, and he saw the captain’s pleased smile at the 
dainty foreign accent that clung to her words. 

“She will be here for Sunday, you will see her at 
church.” He hesitated and looked at the fair, 
colorless face into which, as yet, he had drawn no 
special expression. “Perhaps you don’t go to our 
village church; you are French, are you not?” 

Drusilla smiled. 

“Oh, yes, I go to church. I have not any 
opinions; opinions seem to be tiresome.” She gave 
him such a pretty questioning look that he felt 
roused from his habitual indolence. 

“You mean opinions about going to church?” 
He thought she was perfectly charming; it was a 


THE CA r TAIH AKD Hi 3 ERIEHD. l £ ) 

pleasure to look at her and to listen to her pretty 
English. 

“That is one sort of opinion ; but it belongs to 
the dull things I mean/’ she said in a perplexed 
tone. 

Captain Wentworth heard a movement at the 
other end of the room ; he knew that his friend 
would not hesitate to disturb his enjoyment when 
he once caught sight of Miss Lescure. At present 
Mr. Boyd could only see the outline of her figure as 
she sat turned toward the door that led into the 
library. 

“Have you suffered much from dullness; you 
seem to speak of dull things feelingly?’’ 

He saw a sort of challenge in her eyes at his 
question, and he smiled ; if h meant to learn the 
history of Miss Lescure’s life it would not be from 
herself, that was evident. 

“Are you dull in India?’’ she said, passing by his 
question as if she had not heard it. 

“Are we dull in India? That depends — dullness 
generally does depend, does it not — on our surround- 
ings; but then does dullness exhibit itself in the 
same way to every one?” 

Drusilla did not quite understand. She had a 
consciousness that her guardian was listening to 
every word, and she felt uncomfortable. 

“Shall you not be dull in this quiet place?” She 
drew down the corners of her mouth as if to say “I 


MAiSlE DEklUcK. 


160 

Mr. Yardon gave a grim smile — he was thinking 
of the lonel}/ cottage beyond Sentis. 

Captain Wentworth’s answer pleased her. 

‘That depends,” he said. ‘‘At present I am not 
afraid of being dull.” 

Drusilla gave him a lovely smile, but her attention 
was claimed by Mr. Boyd, who came up at the 
moment to speak to Mr. Yardon. 

“You promised to show us your dogs, Mr. 
Yardon,” he said. Then, as if he had suddenly be- 
come aware of the presence of the figure in black, 
who was looking steadily at him, he went on: “Is 
this another granddaughter, may I ask?” Drusilla 
held her head stiffly at this interruption ; she did 
not want Mr. Boyd just then — she was enjoying her 
talk with Captain Wentworth. 

She looked at the intruder as she bowed to him, 
and accustomed as she was to admiring glances, 
something in his glowing red-brown eyes brought a 
quick flash of color to her delicate face. For an 
instant her dark eye-lashes drooped and quivered ; 
then she looked coolly at her new admirer. Slie 
was resolved to show this big man, who h.ad 
intruded where he was not wanted, that she was not 
a mere country girk who felt honored by Ids 
notice. 

She felt a certain admiration. He looked well- 
dressed and masterful, a man who was accustomed 
to be much thought of, and therefore, Drusilla 
argued, a rich man; she fancied that somew lieie 
or other she had already seen him. 


THE CAPTAIN AND HIS FRIEND. ifn 

But the effect of her appearance on Mr. Boyd 
had been electrical. While he sat talking to Miss 
Derrick he had glanced across at this other girl ; she 
seemed to have a pliant, willowy figure, he thought, 
but she was not so well made as Miss Derrick was. 
Maisie's figure and well-shaped feet and hands had 
impressed this epicure in female beauty far more 
than her face had. Miss Derrick looked too earnest ; 
that pure, trustful expression was not calculated to 
please an admirer of Greuze faces and golden hair. 

He stood looking down at Drusilla with delight. 
He could hardly believe in the good fortune 
which, in an out-of-way place like this, had shown 
him so rare a creature, and he liked her none the 
less for the pout that showed her red lips so 
perfectly. He wanted, however, to see her smile 
before he left her. 

“Shall we go to the kennels?” Mr. Yardon spoke 
roughly; the little scene had annoyed him, and he 
meant to end it. 

“Ah yes, why not?” but Mr. Boyd did not move; 
he kept his eyes fixed on the fair face and the mass 
of sunny hair above the blue-veined temples. “Are 
you fond of dogs?” he said to Drusilla. 

“I?” she opened her eyes widely, as if she were 
surprised to be spoken to. “Oh, no ; I dislike dogs,” 
and she looked at Captain Wentworth. 

“You will not stay long at the Manor House, I 
expect.” She turned her back on Mr. Boyd. 

The captain shrugged his shoulders. 

“1 must not be in London during the season,” he 


i 62 


MAI S/I' DERRICII. 


said. “I am supposed to be here for health’s 
sake — unless you all send me to Coventry, I mean 
to spend a part of my summer here.’' 

“Miss Derrick will be so glad,” Drusilla said softly, 
“she is so very fond of your aunt." 

“Yes?" The captain spoke languidly, Maisie’s 
affection for Miss Savvay did not interest him. 
“By the bye, will not you and Miss Derrick honor 
the Manor House with a visit on Saturday after- 
noon? My aunt will be with us early." 

Me saw a sudden sparkle in Drusilla’s eyes, and 
he was puzzled ; it seemed impossible that so 
beautiful a creature could take an interest in seeing 
a dull old place like the Manor House. 

“We will certainly come," she said, “but your be- 
ing sent to Coventry must depend on yourself." 

“You must not expect much." He returned her 
saucy smile. “There are no pictures worth looking 
at, only some family portraits; my grandmother ap- 
pears to have sold a great deal of old tapestry which 
was really interesting and had a pedigree." 

Drusilla shook her head. 

“I’m glad she sold it, T daresay it was ugly and 
faded," she made a grimace; “old things usually 
are," she added in a low tone. 

“Are you coming, captain?" Mr. Yardon said, and 
at this the captain said “Good-by" to Drusilla and 
to Maisie, to whom he repeated his invitation for 
Saturday. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“you must not flirt.“ 

It was said in F'iggsmarsh, as it had formerly 
been said in the north country town in which Mr. 
Yardon had been chief banker, that he was a 
mystery. Miss Auricula had more than once given 
it as her opinion that he was a mystery to himself; 
she said he never thought about others or about 
anything. Even Miss Savvay, a woman seldom 
either shallow or harsh in judgment, considered 
that he thought too little about others to have much 
regard for their feelings. 

To-day, when he had said good-by to his un- 
welcome guests, for, apart from a special antipathy 
to Mr. Boyd, he had a sort of fatherly dislike to 
male visitors, always excepting the young engineer, 
Mr. Yardon came up the drive with his hands be- 
hind him, and his head bent forward. 

He was doubly discontented. 

Drusilla’s manner had vexed him, and he was 
conscious of a certain responsibility with regard to 
Luke Stanmore; the young fellow’s opposition to 
Drusilla’s wish for secrecy had irritated him ; he 
now saw how justly founded it had been, and he 
despised himself for his own blindness. 

“Little jade,’’ he said; “she has handicapped us 
both, so that she may flirt as she pleases,’’ 

163 


164 


MA/SIE DERRICK, 


He was hardly angry with Drusilla. It seemed to 
him natural that a merry, light-hearted girl, to whom 
all social intercourse was a novelty, should wish for 
liberty to enjoy herself to the full. But he winced 
when he contrasted her behavior with the quiet 
dignity he had remarked in Maisie. 

Miss Vernon and Miss Savvay would have 
wondered if they had seen the pain in Mr. Yardon’s 
face as he thought of his granddaughter and Luke 
Stanmore. He knew that he had separated them 
by his own act, that he had purposely put this 
lovely, bewitching creature in the young fellow’s 
way because he wished him to forget Maisie. Mr. 
Yardon wanted to have a lively young couple to 
keep house for him at the Hall when he began to 
fail, but he did not want Maisie there — she was too 
quiet, too good ; he saw what the parson thought 
of her, and that was enough for him. But although 
he disliked as much as ev^er any idea which con- 
nected Maisie with Luke Stanmore, he had to-day a 
feeling of remorse in regard to her. He had given 
her to understand that Stanmore cared for Drusilla; 
but that was not enough, he felt sure that Maisie 
was unconscious of what had passed in the summer- 
house. She must know it ; it was cowardly to keep 
her in the dark any longer. 

As he passed the end of the shrubbery wall lead- 
ing to the lawn he heard voices raised in dispute. 
Luke Stanmore was speaking angrily, and Drusilla 
was laughing in a way that sounded mocking to her 
guardian. He turned ;it once into the narrow 


YOU MUST NOT FLIRT, 


i6S 

path — Stanmore’s back was turned toward him, but 
Drusilla faced him, and there was a light in her eyes 
and a bright red flush on her cheeks that looked 
like anger. 

‘'You have your choice,” she said. “It is better 
to find out now than later on that I do not suit 
you — you want to keep me in a cage like some poor 

moped bird, and I — I Ah ! here is Mr. Yardon ; 

perhaps you will listen to him.” She tried to hurry 
away up the walk, but as she passed him Mr. Yardon 
took her hand and drew it under his arm. 

“Quarreling already?” he said with asneer; “why, 
you are a^ bad as the birds. Stanmore, my good 
fellow, you must give women their heads at first, or 
they’ll kick over the traces — what’s it all about, eh?” 

Drusilla had pulled out her handkerchief, and she 
put it to her eyes. 

“He’s so false,” she said, in a choked voice; “he 
wants to break his promise not to tell.” Mr. Yardon 
walked on in silence till they all stood by the sunk 
fence. He noticed that Stanmore looked pale, and 
that the veins on his temples showed unusually. 

He looked now fully at Mr. Yardon with a dumb 
agony in his eyes. 

“I was a fool to consent yesterday; you over- 
ruled me, but then I did not know these other 
fellows were at the Manor House. I can’t see that 
it is fair, either to them or to me, that she is to be 
considered free.” 

“I am at least free to go away, am I not? It isn’t 

jdnd to discuss me to my face*'' 


i66 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


She gave Mr. Yardon an imploring look as she 
ended, but he kept his eyes on Mr. Stanmore, while 
his hold on the hand he had drawn under his arm 
tightened. 

“I am quite of your opinion,” he said, as if Drusilla 
had not spoken, “but you surely don’t need to call 
me in ; if you cannot convince her now, how will it 
be later on?” 

He glanced at Drusilla and he was startled at the 
scowl he saw on her fair face. Her eyes were 
aflame with anger; she was in one of the tempers 
that used to visit her at Sentis, and which her 
mother had exorcised by shutting her up by herself. 

“I don’t want to be managed,” she broke out; “I 
didn’t want to be engaged, but you would not listen. 
I — I will not be tormented and blamed.” She was 
crying, and the two men looked uncomfortable and 
foolish. 

Mr. Yardon loosed Drusilla’s hand. 

“Go in to my study,” he said roughly, “and wait 
till I come.” 

The girl was quickly out of sight ; she was 
already heartily ashamed of her outbreak. 

Yardon looked angrily at the younger man. 

“You don’t know how to treat a woman. I tell 
you they are kittle cattle, more especially the light- 
haired ones.” 

“But ” Stanmore began impetuously. 

“Why don’t you listen, man? did I not say I was 
of your opinion? Your matter is right enough; it’s 
your way of putting it that’s faulty. You must 


vow MUST NOT FLIRT, 


167 


humor the child, instead of scolding her. Bless 
you, these things leak out; before Miss Savvay has 
been two days at the Manor House it will be known 
all over Figgsmarsh.” 

Luke Stanmore looked extremely discontented. 

“It must be set straight,” he said doggedly; then 
he felt that this was not the most likely way to 
influence his companion, and he looked appealingly 
at him. “You can help me if you will. I can’t 
have fellows looking at her and talking to her as 
they please; she — she is not like an ordinary girl.” 

“Well, no” — there was sarcasm in the old man’s 
voice — “she’s not, and I fancy the sooner she is 
married the better in all ways. I suppose you 
don’t want a long engagement, eh?” 

“No;” but Stanmore felt that he and Drusilla 
must settle this for themselves. He had received 
a shock just now — for an instant it seemed as 
though a mask fell from the lovely face he wor- 
shiped, and then, when he saw her tears, he could 
have knelt to her for forgiveness. He had deserved 
Mr. Yardon’s rebuke, though he had not, as the 
elder man said, scolded Drusilla. He had asked 
her, in justice to others as well as to him, to make 
their engagement known, but he had asked this 
very urgently and she had refused, at first play- 
fully, and then when he pressed his request and held 
both her hands tenderly clasped, she angrily freed 
herself and persisted in her refusal. 

No, he did not wish for a long engagement ; but 
he felt that be and this sweet, wayward child ought 


i6S 


MAI SIR DERRICK, 


to understand one another a little better before 
they joined their lives. 

"'If you are wise,” Yardon said, ”you’ll leave her 
alone a day or two; you will find her all right when 
you come again.” 

He laughed as he shook hands, but Stanmore 
felt discomfited, and as he went down the lane he 
told himself that he ought to have insisted on his 
own right to make his engagement public. He re- 
solved to announce it himself to Miss Savvay, but 
he would write and tell Drusilla his intention as 
gently and tenderly as he could. 

Mr. Yardon had gone direct to his study; he 
found Drusilla pacing up and down it. There was 
still a red spot on each cheek, but she had evidently 
controlled her anger. She smiled at her guardian 
as he came in. 

He looked gravely at her. 

“Please sit down. Miss Lescure,” he said, “you 
make me feel as if I was out in the wind while you 
move about.” 

“Gracious!” this was one of the girl’s words that 
annoyed her guardian, “you are fidgety to-day.” 

But she sat down close by him, and put her slim 
hand on the arm of his chair. 

He looked curiously at her. It puzzled him that 
a creature to all appearance so refined and dainty 
could talk sometimes more like a shop-girl than a 
lady. He thought Drusilla’s archness was one of 
her greatest charms, but now and then her flippancy 
jarred him; it bad a strange effect on the diffident 


“ YOU MUST NOT FLIRTT 


169 


man just now in the garden. It had seemed to 
him that this exquisite creature, who had promised 
to be the joy of his declining years, was transformed 
into a fury. It was a real relief to see the smile, that 
always soothed him, on her lovely face. “You must 
be reasonable,” he said gravely; “you are not a 
child, and when you have given one man to under- 
stand that you mean to be his wife, you must not 
flirt with others.” 

“What do you mean by flirt?” she said grandly. 
“You forget how ignorant I am about what Miss 
Vernon calls society.” 

“Hang Miss Vernon!” Mr. Yardon spoke 
angrily; “you’ll not get wise advice from her.” 

Drusilla pinched his arm. 

“I am afraid you forget,” she said; “when first I 
came you told me that Miss Auricula was very lady- 
like, and I think she is quite a grande dame ; but 
you need not fear; she is dull, I do not often go to 
see her.” 

Mr. Yardon uttered an impatient exclamation: 

“Miss Vernon is a safe guide about housekeeping 
and dressing and so forth, but she’s not the pattern 
I wish you to follow in her ways — with men. I 
don’t want to be hard on her, but she’s not so young 
as she was, and she means to marry.” 

Drusilla looked at him in simple wonder. 

“Guardian ! I have heard you say that it is every 
woman’s duty to get married. What can you mean?” 

He shook his head. 

'‘I did not say just that, child. I said it was the 


170 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


duty of a woman to marry, provided she was young 
and healthy ; but you never heard me say that it was 
a woman’s duty to get herself married. Look you 
here, Drusilla, you are going to marry Luke Stan- 
more ; you care for him, I have seen it ; and he loves 
you well enough to satisfy any woman. Now you 
are my ward, and I’m not going to let you play fast 
and loose with any man ; we’ll let bygones be by- 
gones, but I shall tell Miss Savvay of your engage- 
ment as soon as she comes to the Manor House. I’m 
not going to have the captain here again till he 
knows you are engaged. He’s not in a position to 
marry; I can tell you that. He’ll not be able to 
free himself in his lifetime — he’ll be a poor man to 
the end of his days.” The old man checked him- 
self. ‘T don’t know what interest that can have 
for you, seeing that you belong to Luke Stan- 
more.” 

Drusilla rose up, she was struggling against her- 
self. A new strange restraint was warning her not 
to irritate Mr. Yardon. She strove angrily not to 
yield to the awe with which this stern man inspired 
her. 

“You talk of me as if I were a sheep or a dog,” 
she pouted out her red lips. “I told you I had been 
hurried into this — I like Mr. Stanmore — but ” 

“Listen, child he spoke sternly and caught hold 
of her wrist, as though he feared she would not stay 
to listen; “I am not a tyrant, Drusilla; if you want 
to break altogether with Luke Stanmore, do it at 
once ; only there shall be no playing fast and loose 


“ Vo O' MUST NOT FLIRTT t ? t 

in this house ; give me a plain answer whether you 
wish your engagement ended — yes or no/' 

Drusilla moved her head wearily. All this fuss 
seemed to her so unnecessary, and then she began 
to consider the pros and cons. 

“Why should you think I want to break with Mr. 
Stanmore?" she said. “I like him.” She moved to 
the door and Mr. Yardon let her go. He had 
warned her and yet he felt that he did not trust 
her. 

Mr. Yardon’s dissatisfaction with his ward had 
softened his feelings with regard to Maisie. He 
had a certain pride in feeling that his granddaughter 
would not be capable of flirting. It was probable 
that in the beginning Maisie had, as he expressed it, 
made up to Mr. Stanmore, but her grandfather was 
just enough to own that if she had done this it must 
have been from liking, not mere flirting; his own 
observation having shown him how quiet her manner 
was both with Mr. Vernon and with Mr. Boyd, or 
with any other stray visitor at the Hall. 

If she still liked Stanmore the sooner ought she 
to know of Drusilla’s engagement. There was a 
shrewd twinkle in the old man’s eyes as he went to 
the library. 

“Set a thief to catch a thief I I say set a girl to 
watch another girl when they both care for the same 
man ; Maisie will be the best of watch-dogs.” 

But for all that he felt nervous at approaching 
the subject with his granddaughter. 

He found her in the library, writing. 


MAlSl^ DERRICK, 


Mr. Yardon was one of the fortunate mortals who 
have a readiness in seizing opportunities. 

“Are you writing to Miss Savvay, Maisie?” 

It was so new for her grandfather to take an 
interest in her doings that the girl felt a sudden 
warmth at her heart, and this showed in her dark 
eyes gratefully. 

“Yes,“ she said. “I’m so glad she is coming to 
stay.” 

The last words annoyed Yardon. “Very well’’ — 
he had meant to say it so much more gently — “you 
can tell her, then, that Drusilla is engaged ; I wish 
Miss Savvay to know it, and Captain Wentworth 
also. You’ll make it clear to her that it is not a 
secret, Maisie.” 

He had kept looking at the books opposite him, 
but now he turned and bent down, as if he were 
choosing a volume from one of the shelves behind 
him. 

“She is engaged to Mr. Stanmore, I suppose?’’ 
Maisie was better prepared than he had expected. 
Less than an hour ago she had seen from her window 
the meeting of Luke Stanmore and Drusilla; 
although it was not very lover-like, yet something 
in Mr. Stanmore’s manner had at once warned her 
of the truth. Since then she had been trying not to 
think; she had only resolved that no one should 
know the pain she suffered ; she was stupefied with 
the sudden certainty of her loss — so stupefied that 
she could not realize the trial that lay before her. 

“Yes.” Her calm tone had surprised him. He 


vocr MUST MOT FLIRT: 


173 


turned round and looked at her, but Malsie went on 
writing as if she were undisturbed. The old man 
felt an Involuntary admiration. He fumbled with 
the books a few minutes longer, then he said huskily, 
“Make my kind regards to Miss Savvay.” And he 
went away* 


CHAPTER XX. 

AT THE MANOR HOUSE. 

For the next two days Maisie could not have 
said how life went. Each night was a long tortured 
wakefulness, and each day was dreamlike. Drusilla 
did not speak of her engagement or of Luke Stan- 
more, and Maisie felt that it was unnecessary to 
force the subject. As yet she could not analyze 
the dull, dreadful pain that gripped her till she 
could scarcely bear it. She knew in a dim far-off 
way that this sorrow was not purely selfish, that she 
grieved for Stanmore almost more than for herself. 
She could not believe in Drusilla's love for him, and 
she shrank from the girl’s deceit with a horror 
equaling the blind trust she had felt, but she only 
seemed to think clearly in her long, wakeful nights, 
and she knew that the convictions that came to 
her in those dark hours might be like most night 
thoughts, exaggerated. 

She looked so worn and pale at luncheon on 
Saturday that even Mr. Yardon saw the change in 
her. 

“You want a good walk, Maisie,” he said; “why 
don’t the two of you go across the common as far 
as Puddock Wood?” 

Drusilla gave a silvery, rippling laugh. 

“You dear thing” — she looked sweetly at him — 


*74 


A 7' THE MANOR NO USE, I?!) 

“don’t you know that we are engaged this after- 
noon? We are going to tea with Miss Savvay.“ 

“Is that so?” Mr. Yardon frowned a little. 
“You Avill give my best regards to Miss Savvay, 
Maisie, and — and I will come and meet you on your 
way home.” 

“Thank you,” Maisie said. Drusilla looked into 
her plate and began a game which she was very 
fond of playing — flinging little bread pellets dexter- 
ously on her plate so as to form some definite 
figure. 

The girl bent over her plate as if she were reading 
her future in the shape the crumbs had taken. She 
started when Maisie said : 

“Will you be ready at four?” 

They found Miss Savvay in a quaint little room at 
the extreme end of the entrance hall. One of the 
windows opened under a veranda wreathed with 
climbing plants, and two steps from this led into a 
little garden, or rather on to a grassplot surrounded 
by flowering shrubs with a gay bed of spring flowers, 
in the middle of the grassplot. Miss Savvay was 
sitting under the veranda. 

Maisie had to bend her head as she passed out to 
greet her friend. 

“This is pleasant,” Miss Savvay said, as she kissed 
her; then she turned to Drusilla: “Miss Lescure, I 
am glad to see you.” 

Drusilla was pleased with the admiring look she 
met. “You are very kind to be glad. I was afraid 
I should be in the way,” she said. 


176 


AfAlSlE DERRICI'A. 


'‘That is very sweet, you must give me a kiss, my 
dear; you are not likely to be in the way — it is a 
pleasure to look at you.” 

Drusilla smiled, and then she looked back into the 
room behind her. 

"What a charming room,” she said. 'T never saw 
anything so pretty — these little brackets and all this 
china. I never saw anything like it. May I go in 
and examine them?” 

Miss Savvay smiled. 

“This is a poor little room, but my mother was 
very fond of it; you must see the Manor House 
itself, and you too, Maisie, you ought to see it — 
there is an old oak staircase, and upstairs there is a 
picture gallery, and I believe some really valuable 
tapestry.” 

'Ts there a ghost?” said Drusilla. 

‘T have never seen one, but I w^as young when I left 
the Hall. There are always foolish stories about an 
old house — this one has been shut up off and on for 
thirty years. You have never seen it, have you, 
Maisie? No, I thought not; you must see it next 
time you come; Laurence and his friend are out to- 
day.” 

Miss Savvay was as bright as the sunshine of a 
spring day and full of cheery talk. Her keen, wise 
eyes had been feasting on Drusilla’s beauty, 
and as she spoke she saw' a cloud fall on the lovely 
face. 

She turned at once to Maisie. 

"May I ask if you talked to my nephew?” she 


AT TI/E MANOR HOUSE. 


l?7 


said. “He said he had been charmingly enter- 
tained ; I hope you found him pleasant.” 

“I did not talk to Captain Wentworth,” Maisie 
answered. “I was listening to Mr. Boyd.” 

“Then it was you who so bewitched him.” Miss 
Savvay looked at Drusilla as the girl turned from 
the china. “He said he had not heard that you 
were bespoken.” 

A bright flush of annoyance showed on Drusilla’s 
face. Miss Savvay imagined it to be a natural 
confusion at the mention of her engagement, and 
this suddenly recalled the fact, which Drusilla’s 
beauty had put out of her remembrance, that Mr. 
Stanmore was a faithless flirt. 

“Laurence is very pleasant,’' she looked at Maisie 
again. “It is a pity he can’t marry; but unless he 
finds an heiress, able and willing to pay his debts, I 
see no chance for him.” 

“Perhaps he does not care to marry.” Maisie 
hardly knew why she looked at Drusilla, and saw 
that the girl was listening with interest. 

“Perhaps not; he was laughing at his friend this 
morning. Mr. Boyd is so anxious to find a wife. He 
is one of the lucky men who need not look out for an 
heiress— he seems to be a millionaire. By the bye, 
Miss Lescure,” she suddenly looked full into the 
room at Drusilla; “Mr. Boyd says he has met you 
somewhere; do you remember him?” 

Drusilla felt a sudden shock. 

“Yes,” she said indifferently; “I saw him once 
when I was traveling.” 


ijS j/AiS/E DERRICK. 

Miss Savvay was going to ask another question, 
but the girl had moved to the farthest corner of the 
little room and was examining a china saucer. Miss 
Savvay turned again to Maisie. 

*‘I never heard of anyone as rich as Mr. Boyd is; 
at least I may have heard, but I certainly never 
talked to a man who goes yachting all over the 
world, who has a villa on Lake Como and a lovely 
house in the Bay of Naples — he seems to live like a 
royal personage when he is at home.” 

Drusilla longed to speak, but she continued her 
inspection of the china and curios on the mantel- 
shelf and on the brackets within the room. 

“Does he live abroad?” Maisie said. 

”1 fancy he spends most of his time abroad, but 
he has a beautiful place in Devonshire — Beanlands — 
and he said that when he marries he shall have a 
house in London, in either Mayfair or Belgravia.” 

Maisie sat looking at her friend. This common- 
place, gossipy talk was so unlike Miss Savvay, it 
puzzled her. Presently tea was brought, and Dru- 
silla came out and took her place near the dainty 
little table, with its fringed cloth and its burden of 
old-fashioned china and silver. 

Maisie leaned back with a smile on her parted lips. 

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Drusilla said. 

“It is all so beautiful,” Maisie said, “from where 
I sit I see those grand old trees spreading on and on, 
till they seem to form a wood at the end of the 
Park ; then the gray tone of the old stone-work and 
the old brick wing look more like a house in a story 


AT THE MANOR HOUSE. 


179 


than a real one. A house in which one race of peo- 
ple has lived for so long must be different from a 
mere modern house.” 

Drusilla turned away her head ; she was gaping. 

“An old house is perhaps not so healthy,” Miss 
Savvay said ; “there is a mustiness about this one, 
but there is a certain charm in the links of an un- 
broken succession that connect one generation with 
another; that china, for instance, which Miss Les- 
cure was examining, is to me full of little family 
episodes and memories.” 

Drusilla had become silent and abstracted. She 
rose, and crossing the grass she bent over the 
rhododendrons, a rich purple background to the 
green semicircle of lawn. 

The tall, graceful figure in black went on, bending 
now and then over some rarer blossom till she passed 
out of sight behind the spring-flower bed in the 
center of the grass. 

“She is very lovely,” Miss Savvay said. “Do you 
like her, Maisie?” 

Maisie hesitated an instant. 

“Yes,” she said, “she is very sweet.” 

Miss Savvay gave her friend a searching look, but 
Maisie bore it. 

There was a large myrtle in a tub, partly sheltered 
by the veranda, and Miss Savvay looked at it in 
search of a fresh sprig as she began to speak. 

“She is charming, but she is not a fit wife for 
young Stanmore; dear .me, no. I have nothing to 
say against him, he’ll get on in life fast enough, but 


i8o 


MAI SI E DERRICK. 


his life will be a work-a-day one, and his wife will 
be called on to share his cares as well as his pleas- 
ures; that pretty, showy creature is too expensive a 
luxury for a rising engineer — she should marry a 
millionaire.” 

”My grandfather says that she and Mr. Stanmore 
are very much attached to one another,” said 
Maisie gravely. 

Miss Savvay suddenly held out the sprig of myrtle 
to Maisie. 

“Nonsense; you must not be vexed, but your 
grandfather is as blind as a bat about an attachment — 
don’t know the right sort from the wrong. I said all 
that just now about Mr. Boyd on purpose. I fancy 
our beauty will not be quite so devoted to her 
engineer when next they meet — Boyd is just the 
man for her — why should the pretty creature be 
robbed of her diamonds and her frocks, and all the 
gay things that would set her off and make her 
happy?” 

Maisie’s eyes were round with surprise; she 
stared at her friend in some bewilderment. 

“Do you think that money of itself will make 
Drusilla happy?” she said. 

“Yes, I do ; money would not make you happy, or 
me either, Maisie, but if you gave Miss Lescure her 
free choice she would not hesitate. I fancy she 
will care more for the means he has than for the 
man she marries.” 

“You are hard.” Maisie looked after Drusilla, 
who stopd half hidden among the trees beyond the 


AT THE MANOR HOUSE. i8l 

garden. It seemed treason to the girl to talk in this 
way. 

“I’m afraid we must not stay much longer. Mr. 
Yardon said he should come and meet us.” 

“Well, then, let him come on here. I should have 
no scruple in saying to him what I have said to you, 
Maisie, and he might help matters.” 

Maisie looked gravely at her friend. 

“You surely are not in earnest. It would at least 
make Mr. Stanmore unhappy, and my grandfather 
would be very angry if Drusilla were to behave so 
ill.” 

She rose from her seat and walked on toward Miss 
Lescure. Miss Savvay looked after her, and shook 
her head. 

“Behave so ill, indeed ! as if anyone need keep 
faith with such a fickle fellow! I wish Maisie would 
pluck up spirit and despise him. No, you don’t, 
Eleanor Savvay. Y ou know very well you would 
give the top joint of your little finger if you could 
break this engagement, and bring the engineer back 
to that brave, sweet girl.” 

She was obliged to quit her reflections, for Dru- 
silla had come back and was asking to be shown a 
way home through the park. 

“Captain Wentworth told me about it,” she said, 
with a lovely light in her eyes. 

Miss Savvay looked at her less admiringly than she 
had done on her arrival, though she still felt the 
fascination of her fresh, beautiful youth. 

“He told you about that gate, did he?’* Hie said 


MA/SIE DERRICK, 


1S2 

sharply. “He might also have said that no one ever 
uses that gate except the master, and that he only 
has the key of it. I am afraid it is useless to go 
that way to-day; you would find the gate locked, 
and it would be a long round back to the entrance 
gates.’' 

Drusilla made the prettiest apologies. She was 
distressed to have suggested anything troublesome, 
and then she bent down to kiss her farewell. 

“1 should like to come and see you again soon. 
May I?” She spoke so caressingly, so like a dear 
little child, that Miss Savvay felt ashamed of herself. 

“Come whenever you like,” she said genially. “I 
won’t say you will be as welcome as flowers in May; 
you are like a flower yourself, you know ; like a June 
lily,” 

Drusilla smiled and nodded and kissed her hand, 
looking back as she walked after Maisie, who was 
already going down the shady walk that led to the 
avenue. 


CHAlPTER XXL 

FIGGSMARSH HAS A GRIEVANCE. 

There had not been so much talk in Figgsmarsh 
since the news of old Mrs. Savvay’s death from 
Rome twenty years ago. It seemed almost hard on 
the worthy villagers that they should get such 
budgets of news at one and the same time, an un- 
fairness to the rest of the year equaling that of the 
flowering trees and shrubs of early June, which mo- 
nopolize more than their share of the year’s beauty. 

First of all there had come the apparition of the 
beautiful foreign lady at the Hall, without so much 
as a word of warning, and then the almost simulta- 
neous love-making between her and Mr. Stanmore, 
and the home-coming of the squire. 

But this last event was a grievance. It was 
indeed probable that the Figgsmarsh worthies, 
notably the carpenter, Mr. Frame, and the black- 
smith, Mr. Foxley, to say nothing of the newsman, 
Mr. Simon, or, as he was usually called, Sim Parrot, 
would carry a sore memory of it to their dying day. 
Joshua Frame had used what he was pleased to call 
a vast amount of brain power in the designing of a 
triumphal arch with which he had intended to en- 
cumber the road on the day of the captain’s home- 
coming. 

“It were a work of hart, that’s what ’twas,” he was 
183 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


1 84 

saying mournfully to the. blacksmith, as he leaned 
against the cottage door-post, while old Foxley sat 
smoking and listening. '‘I’d shown it to the vicar 
— sort of compliment, you understand me, neighbor, 
more ’en I set any store by parson’s judgment; an’ 
he says, ‘Leave me this till to-morrow, will you?’ In 
course I did so, an’ from what the missis hev heard, 
’tis plain as the nose on yer face, Mr. Foxley, ’at the 
parson knowed as the captain was going to sneak 
in in this here ordinary manner. Why, I was 
axially in the road near by the station an’ I see 
the cab going along, an’ I took no more account on 
it ’an if ’t had been the parson hisself. No, Mr. 
Foxley, I’ll not go to church come to-morrow nor 
Sunday after neither. I’m longer in the parish than 
what the vicar is. I pays my doos when called on, 
an’ I’ve not been treated on the square.”' 

Mr. Foxley took out his pipe with some alacrity. 
Joshua Frame’s voice was monotonous, and the 
blacksmith considered he had been long enough on 
the stump for the present. ” ’Tis modern,” he said, 
with superior wisdom. ‘‘Bless you, it’s the small end 
of the wedge that’s a-piercin’ everywhere. Why do 
the squire — you calls him Capen Joshua; to my mind 
he’s a capen in the army, but at home among his 
tenants an’ neighbors he takes his rightful title, and 
sure enough that’s squire of Figgsmarsh.” 

‘‘Well, what about the squire?” Foxley asked; 
the carpenter’s propensity to turn down by-paths in 
his talk worried him. 

“Well, ’tis the same with him as the rest, None 


FIGGSMARSH HA S A GRIE VANCE, 1 85 

of the gentry nowadays don’t see no use in super- 
fluss — that’s tlie word, superfluss — expense, trium- 
phal arches, and the rest. Well, that means ex- 
pense, and drink-money, and treating; and you see 
no one can’t take no notice if he sets his own face 
again’ being took notice of. I’m blessed if I don’t 
think the hard man up the hill of more valley to 
the tradespeople than what the captain’s like to be. 
Good-mornin’, Miss Foxley.” 

Harriet came forward from the kitchen, but it was 
evident that she had not been drawn forward by the 
attraction exercised by Mr. Frame. Her pale blue 
eyes stared past him even while she nodded, and he 
turned to see who might be passing. 

Then indeed he knew that his gossip was over. 
Mrs. Grieg was coming across the road, and 
between her and the loquacious carpenter there 
reigned a peaceful, but none the less for its silence, 
a poignant antipathy. 

For this reason, doubtless, they spoke to one 
another with extra civility, and the carpenter stepped 
down on to the path so that Mrs. Grieg could pass 
into the cottage. But Mrs. Grieg had come out in 
search of sympathy; not to pour out her trouble to 
such a listener as Mr. Frame. 

‘T couldn’t think of intruding,” she said ; ^T’ll look 
in presently when Mr. Foxley is disengaged.” 

“Come in, ma’am, come in,” the blacksmith said 
heartily, his handsome old face beaming as he kept 
back a hardly repressed chuckle at the civilities 
interchanged between his friends. He would have 


i86 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


enjoyed their joint company, but the determination 
in Mrs. Grieg’s closed lips warned him that he must 
choose between her and the carpenter, 

“Good-day, ma’am,” Joshua said; “good-d^y. Fox- 
ley,” and nodding to Harriet, whose pale face 
showed above her father’s high chair back. Frame 
went back to his carpenter’s shed on the further side 
of the Vicarage lane. Mrs. Grieg did not begin 
upon her trouble ; she understood mankind, as she 
expressed herself, too well for that. She asked how 
Mr. Foxley felt; if he did not feel a touch of east 
wind under this warm sunshine — and in the same 
breath was sure he didn’t, or he could not look so 
bright and altogether cheering. 

“It is such a thing to be a family man,” she said, 
smiling, “what with Harriet” — she ventured a glance 
at the pale face, which showed no trace of sym- 
pathy — “and Mr. George, you are never so to say 
alone.” 

“Bless you, ma’am,” the blacksmith said heartily, 
“I like to be alone so long as I have my pipe for 
company. I’ve a deal to think about, taking one 
day with another.” 

She gazed at him admiringly. 

“No doubt of it,” she said, “with such a head as 
yours, so full of wisdom, you could never be at a loss, 
as some are.” 

Harriet stuck her tongue into her cheek. She had 
a secret belief that Mrs. Grieg aimed at being her 
step-mother, and that this flattery was one of her 
weapons. 


PIGGSMARSH HAS A GRIEVANCE. 


Foxley half closed one eye, and then he looked 
compassionately at his visitor. 

“We are all at a loss sometimes,” he said, “but I 
take it a woman can help a man with’ her hands, 
while the man helps her with his head; so as Fve 
said before, neighbor, when there’s trouble forrard 
you can lay it before me.” 

He had not turned his head, but he knew that 
his daughter could hear every word he said. He 
knew too that jealousy interfered with Harriet’s 
cookery, and he was in no fear of offending Mrs. 
Grieg. 

“I might call it a puzzle more than trouble.” Mrs. 
Grieg’s narrow forehead puckered into yellow 

furrows. “It’s concerning my lodger — and it beats 
» » 

me. 

She heard Harriet’s gown rustle as she leaned 
forward to listen. The blacksmith had begun to 
smoke, and he did not interrupt. 

“You thought, and I thought, that he was gone 
on Miss Derrick; and then when the French lady 
came he was always going up to see her. He don’t 
go near so often since Miss Derrick came back, and 
yet Fve been told by one as ought to know that he’s 
as good as promised to Miss Lescure.” 

Harriet gave a defiant snort. 

“It’s not true; who said it?” 

Mrs. Grieg raised her eyebrows. It was wonderful, 
she thought, that this big flabby woman could live 
with such a polite young fellow as her brother, and 
such an old gentleman as Mr. Foxley, who to Mrs. 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


i8S 

Grieg represented perfection in most ways, and yet 
be so uncouth — yes, uncouth was the word for 
Harriet, and it must be owned that Foxley’s 
daughter looked repulsive enough as she bent for- 
ward, her eyes darker than usual with anger, and her 
heavy-lipped mouth pushed forward in sullen chal- 
lenge. 

"“I don’t care for gossip,” said Mrs. Grieg. “Mr. 
Vernon told us last Sunday we didn’t ought to 
gossip about what’s not our business, though this 
partly is my business, because when Mr. Stanmore 
marries, he’ll not want to live in lodgings.” She 
looked up. Harriet was scowling till her yellow 
pallor was hideous to behold. ”I mean this,” Mrs. 
Grieg’s words came more quickly. “Four days 
ago Mr. Stanmore and the beauty was sitting hand 
in hand in the summer-house in the garden, and all 
at once,” Mrs. Grieg lowered her voice as if she 
were speaking of a crime, “he kissed her,” she said 
severely. 

“Well,” said the blacksmith, “and there is no 
wonder in that, surely.” 

Mrs. Grieg felt so disturbed that she forgot to 
watch Harriet. 

“Well,” she said, “Mr. Stanmore’s not free; he 
hasn’t ways like some gents. If Mr. Stanmore 
kisses a lady it’s because he cares for her and so on, 
and this happened four days ago, and yet my lodger 
hasn’t took a bit of notice to me about it, no more 
than if nothing had happened.” 

The blacksmith smoked on; his daughter stood 


MCGSMAl^SII JL4S A CAV/^ J\1 ATCE. ^^9 

leaning against the wall, unbelieving and contemptu- 
ous. 

Mr. Foxley was a crony of Warren’s, and he some- 
times heard of the doings at Yardon Hall from the 
butler, but he was a safe confidant, and, moreover, 
he had a complete disbelief in the discretion of 
women. 

“Give a female anything to keep,” he said, “she 
can’t do it ; there ain’t' nothing she’s so liberal in as 
news — she’ll always add some of her own to a story 
afore she passes it on.’’ 

“Tell ye what it is, Mrs Grieg,’’ he said at last; 
“you’ve no call to worry yourself, it’s maybe a secret 
between the young folks — and the least said about 
it, the better. The old gentleman is hard, no doubt 
on it ; perhaps he don’t want to lose his pretty 
visitor — we can’t tt 11, time will show, so make your 
mind easy.’’ 

Mrs. Grieg sighed. She had eased her mind, but 
she was not comforted. She liked her lodger ; he paid 
regularly, he gave little trouble, he spoke and be- 
haved like a gentleman, and he kept early hours. 
She wished to linger, but she knew Mr. Foxley’s 
ways ; he had had enough of her for the present, so she 
gave a friendly nod, and prepared to take her leave. 

Harriet had retreated to the kitchen, and a low 
gibbering sound indicated that she was talking to 
herself. Her father knew that this was a sign of 
mental disturbance, and he feared that it might 
take effect later on the cooking of his supper; he 
also knew that remonstrance was useless. So he 


190 


MAISIE DEkRlCI^, 


sat still, while every now and then some abusive 
epithet sounded above the monotonous gibber in 
which the woman’s frenzy found vent. It seemed 
to Foxley that Harriet was threatening Miss Les- 
cure, but he could not hear any coherent meaning in 
her bursts of anger. 

He smiled sadly as he gave himself up to the 
soothing influence of his pipe. 

“Poor lass,” he said, “her brains wasn’t all born 
with her, and she knows it, and her temper gets 
fretted in seeking for her strayed wits — poor frac- 
tious soul.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

MISCHIEF BREWING. 

As Maisie and Drusilla went down to the Manor 
House there had been little talk between them. 
Maisie had been unusually silent, and Drusilla had 
walked on, singing, in a pleasant but thin voice, some 
fragments of French lays. 

As they came home the girls seemed to have 
changed characters. Maisie was brighter than she 
had been for days; it had been delightful to see her 
old friend’s kind face, and Miss Savvay’s warm kisses 
and the tender clasp of her fingers lingered with the 
girl as she walked homeward. 

Even to this tried friend Maisie could not have 
told her trouble — as much as she could she kept her 
own mental sight closed to the wound that had been 
dealt her; but that great mysterious power, sym- 
pathy, had made itself felt, and without one spoken 
word a healing touch had been laid on her grief. 
She could hardly believe that this comfort had come 
within reach. Her friend had said she should make 
a long stay at the Manor House; for weeks to come 
Maisie knew that she would find love and help close 
at hand. 

She had spoken more than once to Drusilla since 
they left the wood, but she had only received mono- 
syllables in reply. Miss Lescure had lagged behind ; 


19 - 


MAI^IE DERRlCft. 


she was troubled by an unpleasant memory, and its 
presence doubled the steepness of the way. 

“Are you tired?” Maisie stopped, and looked 
round at her companion. 

“Tired!” Drusilla’s voice sounded irritable. “I 
should think so; my back aches with this steep 
climb. I had no idea it was such a hill.” 

“We are nearly home,” Maisie said encouragingly. 
“Stay,” she added, as Mr. Yardon came in sight, “my 
grandfather has kept his word — he is coming to 
meet us; he will help you along.” 

Miss Lescure’s fair face had a defeated look on it; 
she only smiled faintly when she met Mr. Yardon. 

“Are you tired?” His eyes had passed over 
Maisie’s, and rested on the face he loved to look at. 
“Take my arm, young lady; you have not had 
proper training, or you’d make nothing of such a 
walk.” 

“I call it a desperately tiring one,” Drusilla 
pouted, and turned away her head. 

Mr. Yardon looked at his granddaughter. 

“That Foxley woman wants to speak to you,” he 
said. “I told Warren to let her wait in the hall.” 

“I’ll go on,” the girl said; but the brightness left 
Maisie’s face. She had been listening to the lark’s 
song with that uplifted feeling which sometimes 
seems to be in the very air of spring. Now it 
ceased to move her; the mention of Harriet Foxley 
had brought her back to reality, and her burden was 
once more weighing at her heart. 

As she went down and then up the steps of the 


MISCHIEF BEE IVEVC. 


T93 


sunk fence, she was conscious that this mood was not 
one in which she ought to indulge. She wished she 
could get to like this woman ; but, besides Harriet’s 
covert insolence, the prying, peering curiosity in her 
eyes had always a disconcerting effect on Maisie. 

She found Harriet sitting in a corner of the hall. 
The woman rose slowly when she saw Miss Derrick. 

“Father says,” she looked so inquisitively that 
Maisie felt her color rise, “that Miss Savvay, the 
lady at the Manor House, is a friend of yours, 
Miss ” 

She paused here and stood staring as if so far she 
had been repeating by rote, and had forgotten the 
end of her sentence. 

Maisie smiled at her. 

“Sit down; you must be tired with your walk up 
hill. Can I do anything for you with Miss Savvay, 
Harriet?” 

Harriet laughed and showed her long yellow 
teeth; she seemed really amused that Miss Derrick 
should think she wanted help from her. 

“It’s about Matilda,” she said; “it’s no favor. 
They’ve taken on a new kitchen-maid at the Manor 
House, and that’s my cousin Matilda, an’ Mrs. Prew 
says, as she comes from Wales, and don’t have no 
acquaintance, I may go up to see her now and 
again whilst Tilda’s so strange like.” 

“Well, that is kind of Mrs. Prew.” Maisie won- 
dered what she could have to do with the arrange- 
ment. Harriet had resumed her seat; she moved 
her head uneasily at Maisie’s words. 


194 


MAISIE DERIUCIC. 


“Well/’ she said harshly, “perhaps now and again 
you’ll have a note or message for the lady, and ’tis 
the same to me whether I goes across the common 
or Mr. Yardon’s meadows; I must pass your gate 
any way; so, if you please, I’ll call now and again.’’ 

Maisie felt ashamed of her dislike; the woman had 
looked her in the face while she spoke, and she 
seemed anxious that. Miss Derrick should accept 
her services. 

“Thank you, very much,’’ Maisie said ; “it will save 
you some distance if you go through the grounds. 
I will ask Mr. Yardon’s leave for this.’’ 

A ring at the door-bell interrupted the talk. 
Harriet seemed anxious to go, but Warren was 
opening the front door, and he admitted Mr. Stan- 
more. 

The two women looking on from the corner of the 
hall, saw how determined Mr. Stanmore looked as 
he crossed the hall, unconscious of observers. 

Maisie went forward. “Good-morning,” she said ; 
then added, “Do you want my grandfather? I fancy 
you will find him in the garden.” 

Stanmore bowed, thanked her, and passed on. 

Maisie had forgotten Miss Foxley. She looked 
round at her and saw an odious grin on the woman’s 
face. She gave a familiar nod, said “Good-morning, 
Mi.ss,” and disappeared by a door on the left that 
led to the offices. 

Maisie stood shivering; the hateful, mocking look 
sank into her heart, she felt powerless under it. 
Was this creature a witch, or how could she divine 


MISCHIEF BRE WING. 


1 95 

thoughts which Maisie imagined she had kept hidden 
from every one. She hurried up to her room and 
looked out of the window. Mr. Stanmore and her 
grandfather were standing pn the lawn, with their 
backs to the house, and it was evident that Stan- 
more was speaking very earnestly. Drusilla sat 
near them on a garden chair; her head was bent and 
her face showed only in profile, but Maisie saw that 
the girl was angry. 

Maisie moved away from the window; she did 
not see how impatiently Drusilla turned to the 
speakers as they came up to her. “I leave you two 
to settle it together,’* Mr. Yardon said; “mind, 
19rusi!la, I won’t have any shilly-shallying. I hate 
unnecessary delay — three weeks or a month is long 
enough to keep any man waiting.” 

He went off without waiting for an answer. 

Stanmore had found Drusilla alone in the draw- 
ing-room, and he had taken her in his arms and urged 
her to fix a tinie for their marriage — he did not 
know Mr. Yardon was just outside the open window 
fastening up a clematis, which the wind had torn 
down from the house — but Drusilla drew herself 
away. 

“It is too soon,” she said, and then she heard her 
guardian laugh. 

“Come out, Drusilla,” he said ; “here is a chair for 
you. Ah, how do you do, Stanmore? What do 
you want, I wonder?” 

He laughed, and they all adjourned to the lawn, 
much to Stanmore’s vexation ; he felt sure that he 


196 


MATSIE DI;.RRICK, 


could liave settled the matter far more easily if 
he had been loft alone with Drusilla. Mr. Yardon’s 
departure was therefore a relief — -he was eager to 
plead his own cause without assistance. 

‘‘Come to the summer-house,” he said, bending 
over her; “we can talk better there.” 

Drusilla looked up at him with a sweet, plaintive 
expression. “Won’t you let me rest here?” she 
said softly; “I have had a long walk and I am so 
tired.” 

Stahmore was disappointed. He did not care to 
talk in front of the windows for the benefit of any 
of the household who might be on the watch ; but, 
as he wanted to gain his point, he was willing to 
yield to her. 

“What do you say to three weeks, dearest?” He 
said it very tenderly. At that moment he felt that 
this exquisite creature’s happiness was a very 
precious charge. 

Drusilla pouted a moment, and then she laughed 
in her pretty, rippling way. 

“Men are so amusing. How can I get ready in 
three weeks? I have not clothes enough even 
for this dull place, and you said you should, not stay 
here when your line was finished.” 

This was the first allusion she had made to her 
future life with him, and he was delighted. 

“Darling, of course I am ignorant about such 
things; you can see I have always lived alone or with 
men, but I believe nowadays gowns can be had 
much more quickly than they could formerly. I 


MISCHIEF BRE WING, 1 9 7 

only want you to fix a definite day; it will be better 
for us all to have it settled.” 

She frowned a little, and then looked up at him 
ingenuously. 

“You see,” she said, “I want advice, and only a 
woman can give it me. No one in Figgsniarsh 
knows anything about London shops or dressmakers, 
except Miss Savvay.” She paused with a pretty 
pathetic expression. “I am afraid you would not 
like me to consult her.” 

She spoke timidly, as if she really cared for his 
opinion. 

“Why not, dearest?” he answered. “Miss Savvay 
is just the person who can help you ; she often goes 
to town, and spends part of every year there, and 
she must know all about shopping. I am sorry to 
be such a duffer,” he laughed, “but I’m quite out 
of that sort of thing.” 

Drusilla looked her own bright self again. She 
rose and began to walk across the lawn with her lover. 

“I like you best as you are,” she said; “it does 
not seem manly for a man to know about shopping. 
I hated that Mr. Ray because he interfered about 
my shopping in Paris.” 

Stanmore laughed. 

“He was a bold man,” he said, “and I dare say 
you had your own way after all.” 

Drusilla gave a comical glance out of her half- 
closed eyes. 

“Poor man, I ought not to be hard on him. I got 
up early and did my shopping before he waked.” 


MAI SI E DERRICK. 


198 

''Come out of sight of the house,” Stanmore said, 
as he laughed at her confession. "I want to give 
you something, and I should like to try if it fits 
your finger.” 

Drusilla’s eyes sparkled. It was worth while 
being engaged, she thought, if the engagement 
brought her a gift, and it occurred to her that if she 
was very nice to Luke Stanmore, he might repeat 
his offering. 

“We will go to the summer-house,” she said cheer- 
fully, and she led the way across the grass. 

Stanmore had taken a tiny parcel from his pocket, 
and when Drusilla had seated herself in the summer- 
house, took off the outer wrappings, opened a little 
casket, and showed what seemed to Drusilla a blaze 
of light. 

It came from a ring; a plain circle with a narrow 
upright oval set with brilliants, which flashed out 
every color in the prism as Stanmore placed it on 
the girl’s slender finger. 

"Oh, how lovely, how beauiiful!” she cried, “is it 
really mine?” He was bending over her, and she 
put up her lips and kissed him. 

“Dearest girl,” he whispered, as he slipped his 
arm around her, “you will say this day four weeks; 
yes, darling, I know you wdll not keep me waiting for 
my happiness.” 

Drusilla leaned back in saucy triumph and shook 
her head at him. “Don’t make too sure,” she said; 
“how do you know that you will be as haj)py married 
as you are now? This is much nicer than b'^ing 


MISCHIEF BRE WING, 


199 


married.” She nestled her head against his shoulder, 
but his enraptured answer took her by surprise, and 
she drew herself a little away from him. 

“You are too encroaching,” she said, ”but I shall 
not spoil you ; let us go back to the lawn.” 

“Presently, my darling.” He held her hands in his, 
for this yielding on her part to his love had been so 
unexpected, that he could not give it up at once. 
“You forget one thing,” he said tenderly; “you have 
not given me my answer; I have been waiting ever 
since for you to fix the day.” 

“How persevering you are,” she said gayly. She ’ 
rose from the bench and laughed as she freed her 
hands. “Why don’t you trust me, and then when 
everything is ready I will let you know?” A^stern 
look in his eyes made her hurry out her next 
words. “Please wait,” she said shyly ; “wait till I have 
consulted Miss Savvay. I can't see her to-morrow, 
because to-morrow is Sunday, but she is sure to 
come and see us very soon ; she was so kind to me 
to-day.” She spoke so gently that he could not 
resist her. 

“Very well,” he said; “I will wait a week or so, 
but I shall come very soon to learn your decision. 

I am going to London this evening to tell my news 
to one of my remaining relations, and I shall not be 
back till Monday; so I shan’t see you till Tuesday, 
my pet.” 

He took a loving farewell and left her. Drusilla 
stood looking at her ring, twisting her hand about till 
tlie stones sent put tongues of flame-colored Hght, 


200 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


She felt that she cared for Mr. Stanmore more 
than she had ever done before, more than for any 
one she had ever seen. He was so clever, she 
thought, surely he would be successful, and perhaps 
this relation he was going to see was rich and would 
leave him money. Yes, her lover was wiser than 
she was. He had, no doubt, a motive for this 
journey, and she had felt so vexed when he said 
he was going aw^ay that she had almost asked him 
to give up this journey. She resolved to ask Miss 
Savvay’s advice and to fix a time for her marriage, 
but she also resolved that there was no need for 
hurry. If she kept Luke Stanmore in good temper 
and petted him, she felt sure he would always take 
her part, and then she might snap her fingers at 
Mr. Yardon. She thought too that Stanmore 
would make a more devoted husband if he were 
kept waiting a little longer than he expected. 

“He is a very dear fellow. “ She was looking at 
her ring and making it reflect itself in the long 
mirror in her room. “But for all that I want to 
amuse myself a bit before I quite belong to him, 
and I’m going to see a little more of Captain Went- 
worth and Mr. Boyd, too, before I marry. No, 
there’s no occasion to hurry.’’ 


CHAPTER XXIIL 

THE TAPESTRY ROOM. 

Drusilla spent the chief part of the evening in 
making her ring send out colored flashes of light, 
and she forgot the perplexity in which she had 
walked back from the Manor House. 

Next day, in church, when she saw that Mr. Boyd 
was not in Captain Wentworth’s pew, she remem- 
bered Miss Savvay’s question, and the blood rushed 
warmly to her face. Why had she confessed to her 
remembrance of Mr. Boyd ? She wondered whether he 
had told Miss Savvay about the shabby, short-frocked 
child he had seen at Cannes, but she fancied he had 
not done this or she should have discovered some 
patronage in the manner of Maisie’s friend ; and Miss 
Savvay had been, on the contrary, caressing. Miss 
Lescure, it is to be feared, was not in either a prayer- 
ful or an attentive mood. Mr. Vernon’s sermon 
seemed to pass over her head ; she was so intent on 
planning a visit to the Manor House at a likely time 
for finding Mr. Boyd. She felt that she must see 
him at once and without witnesses. She was not 
going to ask a favor of him, but she thought he 
would see by her manner that she wanted him to 
forget his previous knowledge of her. 

When she saw him at the Hall she had had a 
vague feeling of discomfort. She knew that the 


202 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


square face with its keen hard eyes was not unknown 
to her, but she could not call to mind where she 
had seen it. Miss Savvay’s words supplied the clew 
and created a restless eagerness to see this man again. 

About two o’clock on Monday, Miss Lescure pre- 
sented herself at the Manor House and asked for 
Miss Savvay. 

Captain Wentworth’s man, well-dressed and well- 
trained, a great contrast, Drusilla thought, to pomp- 
ous old Warren, said that Miss Savvay had gone 
to town for the day, she was not expected home 
till evening, could he take any message for Miss 
Savvay. 

The dining-room door opened and Captain Went- 
worth came out with a cigar in his mouth. 

Won’t you come in and rest,” he said, after he 
had given her a delighted welcome, '^you’ll write a 
message for my aunt, perhaps, and she shall have it 
on her arrival.” And he took his charming visitor 
to the library, a snug out-of-the-way room, as full of 
old books as the library at Yardon, but furnished 
with far more luxury. 

Captain Wentworth placed writing materials 
ready, while Drusilla stood pulling off her gloves. 
She felt in her element, happier than she had been 
since she came to Yardon, for this promised to 
be an adventure, and she meant to get as much 
amusement from it as she could. She looked 
at Captain Wentw6rth ; he was not staring, but 
she saw that he was admiring her. She sat dowp 


THE TAPESTRY ROOM. 


and took up the pen placed ready for her, and 
then she paused. 

It was not likely, she thought, that Captain Went- 
worth would tell tales, and Miss Savvay need not 
know any details, beyond the mere fact that Miss 
Lescure had called in her absence. 

She laid down the pen. 

Really, I have nothing to write about,'’ she said, 
with her rippling laugh. I am ashamed to have 
taken up your time.” She rose as if she were going 
away, and took up her gloves. Please say to Miss 
Savvay, how sorry I am to miss the pleasure of 
seeing her, and the rooms she so kindly promised 
to show me.” 

What rooms were they, I wonder,” Captain 
Wentworth smiled. 

Miss Lescure was about the loveliest creature he 
had ever seen, but his opinion of her simplicity was 
not quite so exalted as it had been at their first 
meeting. 

Drusilla thought a moment. 

'‘One was a room with pictures,” she said, “and 
another had tapisserie, ah! you call it in English 
tapestry, on the walls.” 

While she talked to him she exaggerated her 
pretty foreign accent, for she saw how delightedly 
he was listening. 

“ Will you allow me to have the honor of showing 
you those rooms ? ” he said ; “ it is too bad that you 
should have had a long walk for nothing. I will 


204 


MAISIE DEkRICl^. 


try to be a good showman, if you will give me the 
chance ? 

She smiled at him. 

I have seen you, consequently it is not for 
nothing that I came,” she said. It will be ex- 
ceedingly kind of you to show me this wonderful 
tapestry; I have been told that it is at least three 
hundred years old.” 

It is quite as old as that.” 

He touched one of the book shelves on the right 
side of the library and suddenly an opening ap- 
peared as a portion of the book shelves slid out of 
sight. 

‘‘Ah ! ” Drusilla cried, “you are a conjuror.” 

“Those are only sham books,” he said, “they 
serve to mask this sliding door; I will go first and 
show you the way? ” 

He went on and she followed through two other 
rooms. Drusilla wished to look at the furniture 
and the ornaments on the tables and cabinets, but 
the captain was holding the last door open, and 
passing through it she saw a small turning staircase 
at the end of a passage. She wondered, if they were 
to go upstairs, why he had not taken her across the 
hall and up the great staircase which she had seen 
on her last visit. But she had forgotten this 
when they reached the picture gallery, which was 
a splendid and very long room with windows on 
one side, and at . its further end looking into 
the garden. The other side and end were hung 


THE Tapestry room, ^05 

with large pictures, most of them being family 
portraits. 

Brasilia felt awed when she heard that all these 
wigged and grandly dressed gentlemen and the 
ladies, some of them with high powdered heads 
and stiff figures, and others with flowing curls 
and the loosest of robes, were all ancestors of 
Captain Wentworth. 

The name was Wentworth till this property 
came to my grandmother,’' he said, '' and it was 
settled that whoever came into possession after her 
death should resume the old name. I can never 
remember being a Savvay; it was all planned for 
me.” 

I wonder,” the girl said, thoughtfully, that 
you could stay away so long from such a beautiful 
old place? ” 

“And yet you suggested that I should find it 
dull.” 

“ To stay here always — but London and Paris is 
not so very far away. I should think one must 
always be lively in Paris?” ^ 

Captain Wentworth looked at her with increased 
admiration. If he could ever marry, he thought, 
there was a woman to suit him ; but Captain Went- 
worth had served his apprenticeship to the world, 
and he knew perfectly well that Miss Lescure would 
not dream of marrying him if she knew that he had 
come down to the Manor House to consider the best 
means of compounding with his creditors. At 


MAlSIE DERRICK, 


io6 

the same time Miss Lescure was lawful pastime, and, 
moreover, she was his visitor, and he was bound to 
amuse her as much as possible. 

“There is a fine view of the old trees from the win- 
dow,“ he said. 

And so there was. The trees had been planted 
in far-off days for ornament, not as mere timber. 
There were splendid groups of planes only partly 
clothed with tender green, and against them and the 
delicate lime foliage the broad gray-stemmed beech 
trees were dark, and, as yet, wintry of aspect. As 
to the elms, they still showed only a blur of red on 
their dark branches. There were long vistas between 
these groups of giants, and views of green and 
yellow country, with dim blue hills beyond, showed 
more than once at the end of the long grassed drives 
between the trees. While Drusilla stood gazing, and 
wondering how Captain Wentworth could be poor 
and yet own all this property, he was watching her 
face and its changes of e'xpression. 

He did not hear that the door opened softly, that 
some one looked into the room, and that then the 
door was softly closed. 

“What was that?” Drusilla looked around with 
alarm in her eyes. 

“I heard nothing,” Captain Wentworth smiled re- 
assuringly. “I see you have heard of our ghost, but 
it does not walk here; whenever it has been seen, 
it has been on one side of the Tapestry Room. 
Shall we go there?” 


TliE tapestry Room. 


207 


As he spoke he pushed open a sliding door 
between two of the pictures, but this one stuck on 
its way, and failed to produce the magical effect of 
the book-covered panel which had slid into the wall 
at the mere touch of a spring. 

Drusilla grew pale, and she drew back from the 
opening. “You do not really believe in such non- 
sense,” he said ; “all these stories are made up, de- 
pend on it, for some purpose or other.” 

But Drusilla was unwilling to appear foolish : “Oh 
yes,” she said; but she did not go forward; she con- 
tented herself with the view of the tapestry she could 
get from the opening. It was a strangely shaped 
room, long and narrow, with the corners taken off so 
as to form a sort of octagon. The ceiling was carved 
and painted, and in the middle of it was a shallow lan- 
tern above, from which light fell on the gloomy blue 
and green of much of the tapestry. At either end of 
the room was a colored subject ; one a terribly realistic 
picture of the martyrdom of some saint, the other 
a grotesque arrangement of cupids, with watering 
pots and garden tools, in an enormous Italian garden 
with statues, and vases, and fountains among plots 
of brilliant flowers. Faded old settees and arm- 
chairs and a few spindle-legged tables furnished the 
edges of this room. The center was left bare ; there 
was not even a carpet on the dark floor. Drusilla 
shuddered as she stood in the- doorway, and Captain 
Wentworth laughed at her. 


2o8 


AIAISIE DERRlCli. 


“If our housekeeper were here, she would say you 
were likely to see our ghost,” he said; “I believe 
that to shiver in a haunted room denotes a likely 
ghost-seer.” 

Drusilla felt her terror coming back, but she tried 
to hide it. 

”It is not that,” she said, “it is because the room 
looks so gloomy, and that picture there is so ghastly ; 
those dear little cherubs and their watering pots are 
the best things in the room. Is it very dreadful not 
to admire your tapestry?” She gave him one of her 
sunniest smiles, as she stepped back into the picture 
gallery. 

He stopped to close the door before he rejoined 
her. 

“It is more curious than beairtiful,” he said, “and 
I prefer the beautiful always.” 

Drusilla felt that his admiration was very pleasant, 
but she also felt that she had been long enough 
alone with him ; in her school life she had learned 
that such an adventure as this would be considered 
compromising. She knew that English girls were 
permitted much greater freedom than was enjoyed , 
by French ones, but she also knew that a servant 
had opened the door to her, and that he might per- 
haps chatter about her long visit to his master. 

“I must be going,” she said. “Thank you very 
much for all the pleasure you have given me.” 

He was opening the door for her to pass out pf 
the gallery; he stood holding it half open while he 
spoke. _ 


fllE tAPESTRY ROOM 


^09 


“On the contrary, it is quite the other way; it is 
I who cannot be grateful enough for the delight of 
your visit. You will permit me to see you across 
the park?” 

Drusilla had expected this and was prepared 
with her answer. She felt certain that Mr. Boyd 
was in the house; she believed it was he who had 
looked into the gallery, for she had heard a footstep, 
and something seemed to assure her that he would 
contrive to see her on her way home. She thought 
Captain Wentworth was very well-bred and nice, 
but he had an air of ill-health and dejection which 
was antipathetic to her. Drusilla liked every one 
with whom she came in contact to be fresh and 
young, or, if not in full possession of these attributes, 
to be able fully to minister to her gratifications. 

“No, thank you,” she said decidedly, though her 
smile softened her refusal, “I cannot permit it; my 
guardian, Mr. Yardon, would prefer me to come 
home alone.” 

Wentworth thought her more charming than ever; 
she dropped out these words as simply as if she had 
been a little child; but he had not forgotten Miss 
Savvay’s caution regarding Mr. Yardon. “He can 
be as rude as a bear, and he has no respect of 
persons.” He decided that it was wiser to give 
up the pleasure of a walk with Miss Lescure to the 
probability of being forbidden the house by her 
pugnacious guardian. 

He stood outside the entrance watching the tall. 


MAISIE derrick. 


±\Ci 

graceful girl till she passed out of sight behind a 
clump of beecb trees, completely hidden by their 
massive gray trunks, marbled near the base with 
brilliant green and dark olive-tinted moss. 

The girl yawned, and then laughed at herself. 

A few months ago she would have thought a 
talk with Captain Wentworth, an officer and an 
English gentleman, delightful, and also far beyond 
her reach ; for though she had listened to her 
mother’s promises, she had not fully believed in 
them ; and now she had had Captain Wentworth all 
to herself for an hour at least — it seemed to Drusilla 
much longer — and he had not been very amusing, 
nor had he held out any prospect of amusement. 
She hoped he would have proposed some expedition. 
No, he was not to be compared in any way to 
Luke Stanmore, “and he’s not as rich,’’ she sighed 
to herself. She thought just then that if Mr. Stan- 
more were only rich — -really rich — he would be 
delightful as a husband ; but that notion which he 
had so often expressed that the greatest happiness 
was to be found in a modest competency, was 
wholly repugnant to Drusilla, and she turned from 
it with a feeling of disgust as she once recalled it on 
her way through the park. 

“After marriage,’’ she thought, “the man does not 
matter so much as the power he has of giving what 
one wants; a wife sees so little of a husband who 
goes to business every day.’’ 

Captain Wentworth had gone back into the house, 


THE TAPESTRY ROOM. 


2 I I 


discontented with himself ; he knew that he had 
been dull and dreamy, when he should have made 
the best of his chances with his lovely visitor. He 
had, unawares, suffered himself to be ensnared by 
her beauty, and all he had cared for had been to 
feast his eyes on her face and to listen to her pretty 
half-foreign talk. 

“I might as well be a lout of twenty,” he said 
savagely, as he went back to his cigar. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

A MEETING. 

A WOOD of some depth lay between the park 
and the narrow brook that divided it from Mr. 
Yardon’s meadows. The chief part of this wood 
was copse and underwood, but every now and then 
huge gnarled oaks, gray and hoary, rose above the 
leafage which already showed below them. These 
were evidently the survivors of some ancient forest, 
and had a girth of trunk sufificient to form a hiding 
place for a pair of lovers. 

It was not a lover-like face that now peered from 
behind the biggest of the oak trunks. The yellow, 
sullen face of Harriet P'oxley was tempered by an 
expectant smile as she stood half-hidden and lis- 
tened to some approaching sounds. There was so 
little to do at the Manor House that the household 
had plenty of leisure for observing all that happened 
and for seeing visitors from the village. Harriet 
had learned from her cousin, on the previous evening, 
as they came out of church together, that as Mrs. 
Prew, the housekeeper, was going to town shopping 
with Miss Savvay, she, Tilda, could easily show 
Harriet the wonderful haunted room without any 
one being the wiser. Harriet and her cousin were 
engaged in examining the tapestry when voices in 
the gallery gave them warning to retire. Instead of 


A MEETING, 


213 

opening the door by which they had come in, at the 
top of a back staircase, Tilda showed her cousin that 
there was plenty of room to stand between the heavy 
tapestry and the wall, so that they had seen Drusilla 
with the captain, and had listened to much of their 
talk. 

Harriet was greatly relieved ; she had felt after 
Mrs. Grieg’s revelation that she must do some des- 
perate act rather than allow the Frenchwoman, as 
she called Miss Lescure, to marry Mr. Stanmore. 

There was more danger, she fancied, that such a 
marriage would happen, because Mr. Yardon was 
partial to the Frenchwoman, and it was no secret to 
the'^ village people that he had never made a favorite 
of his grandchild. What end the half-witted woman 
proposed to herself in interfering with Mr. Stanmore’s 
marriage, she perhaps hardly knew. Till Mr. Stan- 
more came to Figgsmarsh she had seemed to be a 
harmless imbecile ; she loved her father and was de- 
voted to his comfort, but she knew that he treated 
her more like a child than a woman, and she was very 
jealous of anyone he praised or noticed. When 
Luke Stanmore came to the village it seemed to 
Harriet as if life had changed for her; she had found 
her idol, and she yielded herself up in a mute adora- 
tion that watched eagle-eyed for every going and 
coming of her hero. 

She had hated Miss Derrick because her father 
praised Maisie, but when she heard Mrs. Grieg cou- 
ple the girl’s name with Mr. Stanmore’s she longed 
to do Miss Derrick a mischief; she even rejoiced at 


214 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


first to learn that Mr. Stanmore had been seen walk- 
ing with Miss Lescure. But this talk of marriage had 
made her furious, and she resolved to watch Drusilla 
and to put it out of her power to marry Mr. Stan- 
more. 

Mr. Stanmore was only taken with the French- 
woman’s face, that v^as all, and if Miss Lescure lost 
her beauty, she would also lose her lover. Harriet 
remembered how Tilda’s sister Mary, only a year ago, 
had taken small-pox and lost all her looks; and her 
promised husband, Charley Phayre, had given her up 
in consequence. It was therefore a relief to find 
that Miss Lescure was carrying on, as she termed it, 
with the captain. She made sure Captain Went- 
worth would see the beauty home, and she hurried 
away from her cousin’s tempting offer of tea and 
muffins, in the hope of seeing or hearing something 
which she could report to Miss Derrick, for Harriet 
was persuaded that Maisie would be willing to sepa- 
rate Miss Lescure from her lover. 

Miss Foxley had hurried so recklessly through the 
wood that her hat was over one eye. To her father’s 
annoyance she persisted in wearing a tall black hat. 
She had torn her mauve gown, and her thin tow- 
colored hair was as full of ends and shreds as a bird’s 
nest; but she took no heed — she stood peering for- 
ward from behind the oak trunk listening to the 
snapping of twigs caused by the nearing footsteps, 
and straining her ears to catch words out of the 
voices that came every moment more plainly through 
the wood. They were so near now that Harriet 


A MEETING, 


2IS 

drew back behind the tree, and gathered her skirts 
closely, lest they should betray her. She could hear 
the voices distinctly; Harriet's face became paler 
with jealous anger, as she listened to Miss Lescure's 
silvery laugh, and to her pretty foreign-spoken 
words. 

“That’s how she catches ’em, with her tricks-,’’ she 
muttered. It seemed to her that the speakers had 
halted just before they reached the tree. 

“Not any further, please,’’ Miss Lescure said. 
“You must go back, now.’’ 

“Well, then, let us stand here. I must have you a 
few minutes longer.’’ 

It was not Captain Wentworth’s voice, and Har- 
riet’s wonder and curiosity made her imprudent; 
she peeped from behind the tree, and then drew her 
head back in alarm. They were close by her, for 
they had spoken in a low tone, and had seemed far- 
ther off. Miss Lescure stood sideways, her head bent 
slightly forward, and her eyes fixed on the ground; 
her companion was tall and stout, with red whiskers 
and red-brown eyes. He wore a white hat and a 
light overcoat, and Harriet guessed that he must be 
the visitor staying at the Manor House. 

“When shall I see you again?’’ Harriet could not 
see how he bent over Miss Lescure, who seemed to 
be intent on breaking the point of her sunshade in 
the tough leafy ground. “Will you come this way 
to-morrow?’’ he said impatiently, as she did not 
answer. 

Drusilla’s lips curved with amusement ; she raised 


MAI SI E DERRICK, 


2 16 

lier head and looked steadily at her new admirer. 
She was so conscious of her beauty that his admi- 
ration did not vex her so much as its absence would 
have done, but she thought Mr. Boyd was not 
sufficiently grateful for the favor she had already 
shown in permitting him to walk with her. Surely 
he must know she would not permit every one she 
met to Avalk with her. 

“Are you soon leaving the Manor House?” Her 
lips still had an upward curve. 

“No, I have settled to stay some time longer; do 
you think I could run away directly I had found 
you?” he said reproachfully. 

“I do not know, you seem so impatient.” 

He laughed. “Isn’t it natural I should be im- 
patient to see you again, when I have altered my 
plans on your account? I ought to be in London.” 

Drusilla stared at him. She thought he had a 
much freer way of speaking than either Captain 
Wentworth or Luke Stanmore ; he did not seem as 
anxious to please her as they did, and she was not 
sure whether a real lady would permit such freedom. 

Next minute she checked her own doubts by the 
assurance that she was a lady, and that it was not 
likely that Mr. Boyd meant to be familiar; it was 
simply that, judging by what he had said about his 
life as they walked through the wood, Mr. Boyd 
was more fashionable than Captain Wentworth, 
and was much more accustomed to society. Dru- 
silla considered that he must certainly know bet- 
ter how to behave than a man who had passed 


A MEETING. 


217 

SO many years in India, or than a hard-working 
engineer. A pretty flush rose on her face at this 
last thought. She had consented to be the wife of 
a man who did not go into society, and Miss 
Auricula Vernon had said that, to an English 
person, society meant the best part of life; a part 
of life which Miss Auricula was debarred from enjoy- 
ing, because the Rev. Charles Vernon preferred a 
mere existence in Figgsmarsh all the year round. 

“Won’t you tell me,” Mr. Boyd said, more gently, 
“when I can see you again?” 

“You can call, if you like.” She spoke simply, 
but she looked saucy. 

“I think not; your guardian has no wish to see 
me at Yardon, and I do not wish to force myself 
upon him. Say you will come down here to- 
morrow?” 

“Not to-morrow,” she spoke sweetly, but so calmly 
that he saw he must submit. ‘M may be here 
Wednesday or Thursday, but I am not sure. 
Perhaps,” she said gravely, as if the thought had 
just come, “perhaps Mr. Yardon may not approve of 
my coming at all.” 

Mr. Boyd gave an impatient exclamation. 

“I don’t think you will ask his leave, will you?” 
he took her hand, and held it in his; “a guardian is 
not the same as a parent, and even a tyrannical 
parent has only himself to blame if he is deceived ; 
besides, I ask you, do we want companions? I want 
to meet you alone, so that you may know more of 
me; I wish for your good opinion, and I fear I can- 


2i8 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


not claim that on so short an acquaintance. My 
case is so different ; I feel as if I had known you all 
my life.” 

And yet you have seen me only twice,” she said, 
laughing, and yet looking keenly at him. Her eye 
dropped under his. 

“You forget our first meeting.” 

He was still looking hard at her, and Drusilla did 
not like his look — it was so bold ; she, however, 
forced herself to meet it with a challenge in her 
eye. 

“There are things which it is best to forget 
altogether,” she said haughtily; “I detest a friend 
who remembers everything — I am not sure that I 
should ever wish to see such a person again.” 

Boyd raised her hand, and kissed it. 

“No fear that you will be tried in that way. 
Well, I shall be on the watch, and I trust to your 
sweetness not to disappoint me.” 

She looked quickly toward the hoary trunk — 
“Good-by,” she nodded hurriedly — suppose they had 
been watched, she thought, and she wished she was 
safe on the farther side of the brook. 

She was surprised that Mr. Boyd let her go easily ; 
he did not try to stop her, as she hurried along 
the leafy path, and then crossed the brook to the 
meadow. 

Drusilla’s face glowed as she walked ! She could 
not tell how it happened, but this man had taken a 
masterful tone with her. She did not like him as 
much as either the captain or Luke Stanmore, and 


A MEETING. 


219 


yet she felt quite intimate with him already. She 
was not sure that she liked Mr. Boyd at all, but she 
liked what he had told her about his fine English 
home, and his Mediterranean villa, and his yacht. 
He had also said that, when he married, his wife 
should have the finest diamonds he could give her. 
Drusilla gave a little sigh ; she felt sure this man 
was only flirting with her, or why should he be 
afraid of Mr. Yardon? He was no doubt very rich, 
and he would try to marry a well-born woman, 
perhaps some one with a title. 

'‘Why do I care?” she said crossly. ‘‘What can 
it matter to me; haven’t I got to marry Luke 
Stanmore, and be content with a modest compe- 
tence?” 

She looked, on the contrary, extremely dis- 
contented, as she crossed the meadows and climbed 
the steep path to the Hall. 

Mr. Boyd stood where she had left him. He 
was smiling at the lichen-frosted old trunk, as if he 
knew how tired Harriet Foxley was of standing 
behind it; the situation evidently amused him. 
Presently he said quietly: ‘‘You can come out now; 
the lady’s gone.” 

Harriet was so alarmed that she sank against the 
trunk. Her heart beat wildly for a moment or so; 
she could not move — but Mr. Boyd switched 
his stick impatiently, ‘‘Come out, I say; come out 
at once.” 

The trembling woman came limping out of her 
hiding-place, with knees and elbows bent, and her 


520 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


hands hanging in front like the paws of a dog 
begging. She was too much terrified to look up. 

Mr. Boyd could hardly help laughing, but he tried 
to speak severely. 

“What were you doing there?” 

Harriet stood still as he placed himself in her way; 
she forced herself to look at him. 

“That ain’t no business of yours,” she said 
sulkily. 

“Yes, it is; what business have you in Captain 
Wentworth’s wood? You are not one of his 
servants.” 

He was not quite sure of this, and her answer 
relieved him. 

“I’ve got leave to go this way,” she said, in the 
same defiant tone. 

Boyd hesitated ; he did not know whether to 
bribe or to threaten her. 

“Look here,” he said at last; “I believe you were 
spying on Miss Lescure. I advise you not to 
chatter; if you do, you will not be allowed in this 
wood again. I will see to that. Now you had 
better clear out as quick as may be.” 

He spoke so sternly tliat the woman obeyed him 
from sheer cowedness, telling herself all the time 
that she had as much right there as he had, and 
more too, being a native of Figgsmarsh. Deep in 
her heart she resolved to lose no time in seeking Miss 
Derrick, and letting her know the goings-on of the 
Frenchwoman. 


CHAPTER XXV. 
drusilla’s reflections. 

Drusilla had settled herself in a cosy chair in 
her bedroom ; she was so filled with pleasant 
thoughts that she hardly knew how to digest 
them. Her brief vision of Paris and its shops had 
shown her the dazzling delights that lay outside her 
experience, and also, when she had lately remem- 
bered them, beyond any future' hope, as the wife 
of Luke Stanmore; as she drove about that 
morning in Paris to make her purchases, the girl 
had caught glimpses of jewelers' windows, where 
brilliants blazed in- pale blue velvet cases, and en- 
veloped all sorts of other gems in their many-hued 
and flaming light. These memories had been 
vividly recalled by her lover’s gift to her, and now 
as she lolled back in her chair, and held up her 
slender finger for inspection, she gave a half-scorn- 
ful smile in thinking of the delight with which it 
had filled her. 

“Poor fellow,’’ she sighed, “I believe he thought 
it a handsome present.’’ She flushed at the remem- 
brance of Mr. Boyd’s eyes when he told her his wife 
should have all the diamonds jhe could wish for; 
he had also said he considered it a matried 
woman’s duty to dress as perfectly as possible, so 
as to do credit to her own taste and her husband’s 




22i 


MAISIE DlikRlCK. 


liberality. The last word jarred Drusiila as she re- 
called it. When she was married, she told herself, 
she should have an allowance that would enable 
her to dress as she pleased. She sighed; she did 
not believe that Luke Stanmore could make her 
happy in this way — he might be able to provide her 
with an allowance for gowns and millinery, but she 
should have to wait years for jewelry. She might, 
perhaps, get just one trinket now and then. 

“And when I am old, and not worth looking at, 
I shall get what I want, perhaps. Oh, dear me !“ 
She gave a gasp of discontent. The bright fancies 
and gay visions which had just now made life so 
pleasant, turned to a gray monotony as she con- 
templated her future with Luke Stanmore. 

She rose and paced her room — the walk up-hill 
had not tired her to-day; her talk with Mr. Boyd 
had been so pleasant in retrospect that she had 
reached her room in a sort of dream. Now, by way 
of banishing the vexatious memory that had 
disturbed it, she called up the images of the two 
men, and considered them side by side. 

Mr. Boyd was a fine man, she thought, and his 
eyes were handsome; but something in their red- 
brown gaze disturbed her, and gave her the sus- 
picion that Mr. Boyd was not quite frank with her. 

He seemed to be more fascinated by her looks 
than Mr. Stanmore had been, for he said so much 
about her beauty, while Luke had only talked about 
his love ; and yet Drusiila was conscious that from 
the first she had exercised a certain power over Mr. 


DRVSlLLA'S RERLECTIOXS. 


^ 'y 

Staninore, It was quite different with Mr. Boyd. 
Even v/hen he asked her to meet him again, he had 
asked in a masterful tone — there had been no wist- 
ful, imploring look in his strange eyes. His influence 
over her seemed to be more like Mr. Yardon’s, 
something to which she yielded against her will. 
Yes, she could not deny it: it was pleasanter to 
think of Mr. Stanmore; he too had beautiful eyes, 
but they always looked tenderly at her. There 
was a man, Drusilla thought, who might sometimes 
be vexed with her if she flirted, or was extravagant, 
but who would forgive everything if she smiled at 
him— and then again she called up Mr. Boyd’s face 
and tried to picture how it would look with an 
angry frown on it. 

At this she turned a little pale, but she laughed 
off her fancies — “How silly I am ; Mr. Boyd is nothing 
to me, I am going to marry Luke — Luke, what an 
ugly name it is, and the other’s name is Reginald. 
I wonder why he said his wife should call him 
Rcggy. Is he engaged? It was so odd the way he 
went on talking about what his wife should do — 
just as if he thought that could interest me.’’ 

She sat thinking for some time longer, and she 
convinced herself that she must be what was called 
“in love’’ with Luke Stanmore if she could really 
prefer him to this wealthy admirer, who seemed 
ready to put all the desirable things of life at his 
wife’s disposal. 

Drusilla was quick-witted, and although she was 
sometimes passionate she was far more often cold, 


224 


MAISIE DEkRlCk\ 


SO that she deceived herself less than a warm-hearted 
woman might have done; but in her considerations 
she had forgotten that she was sure of I>uke Stan- 
more’s affection, and also of his wish to marry her, 
while Mr. Boyd, with all his compliments, had only 
flirted with her. 

Mr. Boyd did not consider his behavior in the 
same light. He was far too modern to think of a 
love marriage on both sides — he possibly dignified 
his feelings for Drusilla by the name of love; but, 
according to his creed, a woman could be taught to 
love any man who could minister to her taste and 
fancy, and already he had gathered from Drusilla’s 
talk that she longed for the pleasures of life, and 
considered herself buried alive at Figgsmarsh. Mr. 
Bo3^d had been told of her engagement to the 
young engineer, but he had not spoken of it ; it was 
evident to him that she could not care very much 
for Mr. Stanmore, or she would not have flirted 
with Captain Wentworth and then with him. Mr. 
Boyd’s e^^es had a very unpleasant look in them as 
he reflected on this inclination in Miss Lescure. 
But he soon laughed himself into securit3^ 

“Any pretty girl would flirt, shut up in a dull old 
house,’’ he said to himself. “Give a woman plent}" 
of amusement and you’ll keep her good-tempered, 
and then you can manage her as you please.’’ 

He looked annoyed, however, as he thought of the 
spying woman behind the tree; he had not intended 
to hurry matters with Drusilla, but this discoveiy 
might change his plans. He had learned from Miss 


DRUSILLA'S RERLECriONS. 2^5 

Savvay that this engagement with the engineer 
was recent, and also that Mr. Yardon was favorable 
to it ; it would evidently be useless to try to win 
Drusilla in any open manner. If the girl preferred 
him to this young fellow, it would be an act of jus- 
tice to free her from Mr. Yardon’s tyranny, and 
would punish the old man for what Mr. Boyd con- 
sidered “confounded impertinence” toward himself. 

He did not trouble himself about Captain Went- 
worth’s views. 

“Wentworth knows too well on which side his 
bread is buttered, to fall out with me,” he said. 

He did not go back to the Manor House — when 
he stationed himself in the wood so that he might 
meet Drusilla, he was on his way to the railway 
station to telegraph some orders to London trades- 
men. By turning to the right and skirting the wood 
in that direction, instead of crossing the brook to 
the Yardon meadows, he could reach the highroad 
half a mile beyond Figgsmarsh, but the spy had 
gone that way, and also it led far away from the 
station. Turning to the right Mr. Boyd soon came 
to the end of the wood, and stepping across a broad, 
dry, leaf-strewn ditch he found himself on the breezy 
common, where the sunshine and the lark, golden 
gorse and the fragrance of the thyme, as he crushed 
it under foot, all ministered soothingly to his ruffled 
senses. 

He was a traveler, and he easily found his way to 
the top of Rectory Lane. It was in full beauty, for 
each day had developed the leafage, and broad 


226 


MAISIE DERRlCli, 


shadows crossed the road with only occasion^ lines 
of light between. 

He had nearly reached the Rectory, and was in 
view of the High Street, that crossed the foot of the 
lane, when he saw Miss Derrick pass. He looked 
after her when he reached the cross-roads, and 
he saw that she passed by the blacksmith’s and 
went on. Some one, a tall young fellow, came sud- 
denly out of the blacksmith’s and hurried after 
Miss Derrick. 

It occurred to Mr. Boyd that this could only be 
the young engineer. 

He laughed, and showed an even range of white 
teeth. 

“Some men in my position would try to make 
market out of this with my beauty, but I know 
better; I have not studied women so long for noth- 
ing. If I were to tell Miss Lescure that I caught 
her lover walking with some one else, she’d leave 
no stone unturned to bring him back — mightn’t 
stick to him even then, but so much time would 
be lost, and to make amends he might want to 
hurry the marriage ; it is best to let well alone. I 
have always the story to tell, should it be neces- 
sary.’’ 

He smiled and went down the road leading to the 
station. 

Maisie had seen him, though she had not looked 
toward him; she secretly hoped Mr. Boyd might be 
going aw^ay ; she did not like him, something about 
him jarred her. She had meant to call at the black- 


DRUSILLA^S REFLECTIONS. 


227 


smitl>s cottage, but she saw that Mr. Stanmore was 
talking to old Foxley, and she passed on. 

“I am so glad to have met you,’' Stanmore said 
as he came up with her. “I have just been up to the 
Hall and no one was in." 

"I fancy Drusilla was in," Maisie said, " but I 
have been a long round." 

"Miss Lescure has been to the Pvlanor House!’' 
Stanmore looked vexed as he spoke. "I came home 
this morning instead of this evening, as I had in- 
tended, and I met Miss Savvay at the station; she 
was on her way to London." 

Maisie flushed; she remembered now that her 
friend had said she was going to town, as they came 
out of church together, and she felt sure Drusilla 
could have heard it too. 

She walked on in silence, and Stanmore walked 
beside her, frowning and ill at ease. 

"Miss Derrick," he said suddenly, but he did not 
look at Maisie, "I haye no right to force my 
troubles on you, but you are the only person who 
can help me. I cannot tell anyone else, and you are 
so good," he said hoarsely, "that I believe I may 
speak to you.’' 

Maisie looked frankly at him. 

"What is it?" she said, so calmly that he felt at 
once relieved ; his trouble was already lighter. 

"I was told just now that Miss Lescure called on 
— on Captain Wentworth in Miss Savvay ’s absence." 

Maisie thought his eyes looked fierce, and then a 
look of shame settled on his face. 


228 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


“You think me a coward,” he went on, “because 
I say this to anyone but herself, but I am not 
sure that she would listen.” 

His face worked nervously and as his eyes met 
hers, so full of kindness and sympathy, he turned 
away. 

“You must tell me how I can help you,” Maisie 
said ; “you do not wish me to speak to — to Drusilla?” 

They had now left the village behind them and 
were in the open highroad, once the coach-road 
to London, with hedges gay Avith spring leaves on 
either side. The dust raised by their foot-steps flew 
about in great clouds and threatened soon to blight 
this green freshness. Both Stanmore and Maisie 
felt a sense of relief in their freedom from obser- 
vation. 

“No,” he said, “not that, but I want advice. Your 
grandfather says I don’t know how to treat a 
woman. You see, my mother died years ago, and 
I never had a sister or even a girl cousin to study. 
Each time I have ventured to remonstrate with Miss 
Lescure I have vexed her; I feel that I ought to 
ask an explanation about what has happened this 
afternoon, and yet, if I do, it may cause a quarrel 
between us.” He stopped — he could not bring him- 
self to say that he did not feel sure enough of Dru- 
silla’s love to risk the chance of offending her so 
seriously. A sudden strong desire seized on Maisie. 
When she first heard of the engagement she had 
longed to tell Stanmore how deceitful and frivolous 
Drusilla really was, for up to the last she had spoken 


DRUSILLA^S REFLECTIONS, 229 

of him as Maisie’s friend, and as if she took little in- 
terest in him ; but Maisie’s humility was real, and 
almost as soon as the thought came she had become 
aware that what she considered as a strong desire 
for Mr. Stan more’s happiness, was simply that 
prompting of jealousy which so often makes a 
woman with the best intentions spiteful. An 
almost overwhelming desire now came to open this 
blind lover’s eyes, but she struggled bravely against 
it. It was not an easy struggle. Maisie’s lips 
quivered, and the rich color that had flushed her 
cheeks left them, as she asked herself by what right 
she could judge of what might come of this union — 
how could she foresee the influence for good which 
such a love as Mr. Stanmore’s might work in this 
untaught girl? Her head drooped forward and she 
felt self-convicted ; she was so long silent that he 
was puzzled. 

'‘You think I ought not to ask your help; I 
should have begun by saying that you know so 
much better than I do what is the best course to 
take in such a case. You see Miss Lescure every 
day, and you are doubtless in her confidence. I have 
no wish to pry into that,” he said hurriedly, “only 
can you tell me what I had better do about this?” 

Maisie had recovered herself ; she smiled as she 
gave him one of those frank, truthful glances that 
had won him on their first acquaintance. 

“To begin with, are you sure what you have been 
told is true?” 

"I think so. I came the long way round from the 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


2J0 

Hall stables this morning, the way Foxley goes 
across your meadows, and then into the road be- 
yond where we are now. I was walking fast and 
I heard my name called. I stopped, and I saw that 
poor creature, Harriet Foxley, running after me. 
She was so out of breath, she could scarcely speak, 
but I made out that she had just come from the 
Manor House and that she had seen Miss Lescure 
and Captain Wentworth going over the house 
together. Before I could get away she had said 
some very unpleasant things; but surely the woman 
can have no motive in inventing such a story?” 

A pained look came into Maisie’s face. 

“I am not sure about that,” she said sadly; “you 
must remember that the poor creature is only half- 
witted and that she is very jealous. Do you know,” 
she went on earnestly — she was thinking of her own 
feelings so short a while ago — “I believe jealousy is 
the most dangerous feeling a woman can have; it is 
so violent and so unreasoning. Old Foxley admires 
Miss Lcscure immensely, and I expect he has talked 
about her before Harriet till very likely the poor 
thing hates her and would harm her if she could. I 
am sure from my own observation that Harriet is 
very spiteful.” 

Stanmore did not look convinced. 

“You would advise me then not to take any 
notice of Drusilla?” 

“Yes, and if I may say so,” she spoke timidly, “I 
would be very indulgent; Drusilla is so young and 
inexperienced, she knows nothing about conven- 


DR U SI L LA ' S REFLE C i IONS. 2 3 1 

tionrJities, or worldly ways. Her mother, she tells 
me, was a complete invalid, and lived a very secluded 
life. Girls of Drusilla’s age are not often blamed, 
you know,’' she said laughing, “and I am not sure 
that spoiling is not better. I find her very easy to 
get on with,” she ended brightly. 

“Thank you, I am ashamed of having troubled 
you.” 

There was a grave, sad look on his face that 
haunted Maisie after she had left him, as she went 
home by what he had called Foxley’s way across 
the meadows. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

AN INTERESTING INTERVIEW. 

Nearly a week had gone by since Drusilla’s visit 
to the Manor House. Miss Savvay and her nephew 
paid a call, during which Captain Wentworth 
pointedly talked to Maisie and her grandfather,, and 
left Drusilla to entertain his aunt ; but when the visi- 
tors were gon^ Miss Lescure said that she found 
Miss Savvay far more entertaining than her nephew, 
and certainly pleasanter to look at. She repeated 
this to Mr. Stanmore when he came to see her. He 
was pleased ; he had followed Maisie’s advice, and 
was on the best of terms with his fiancde ; it must 
be, however, owned that Drusilla was determined 
not to vex him. She wanted to defer her marriage 
as long as possible, and she wanted to get another 
meeting with Mr. Boyd. For the last few days 
Maisie had asked each afternoon to walk with her, 
and each time that Drusilla had gone out early to- 
ward the wood she had caught sight of Mr. Stan- 
more or of her guardian in the near distance. She 
began to think that her adventure had got wind, 
and that she was watched, and she devoted herself to 
her lover with a gentleness that delighted him. She 
did not talk much ; she listened and gave sweet 
looks of assent to all his plans for the future, till 
Stanmore hated himself for having listened to a 


AAT INTERESTING INTERVIEW, 


^33 


word against such an angel. He scorned himself 
for his confidence to Miss Derrick, but he trusted 
her — he knew- she would not make mischief between 
him and Drusilla. So the days went on serenely be- 
tween the lovers, and even Mr. Yardon wondered at 
the change in his ward. It was wonderful, he 
thought, how the near prospect of marriage had 
tamed her. For the present her saucy moods 
seemed to have vanished. 

At last there came an afternoon which left Drusilla 
free. Mr. Yardon asked Maisie to accompany him to 
the Manor House, and he gave Drusilla a message to 
deliver at the Rectory. Mr. Stanmore had said 
when he went away last night that he had to spend 
the day at Blievedon. 

Drusilla went slowly toward the gate ; there was 
a certain risk, she thought, in going to meet Mr. 
Boyd in the wood, but then she knew that her 
guardian and Maisie would walk along the beaten 
track, and it would be easy, she fancied, to keep out 
of sight among the trees. She need only put Mr. 
Boyd on his guard, and he would manage to keep 
out of sight ; she felt a great reliance on his savoir- 
faire in a matter of this kind. It did not occur to 
her that she might miss him in the wood ; she was 
persuaded that he would wait there every day till 
she came. She opened the gate and hurried down 
hill to the Vicarage. She gave Mr. Yardon’s mes- 
sage to the maid, tnough she had been charged to 
deliver it to the vicar, but Mr. Vernon might be 
capable, she felt, of walking up the hill with her. 


234 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


Instead of going in at the Hall gates she went past 
them and crossed the common. She did not meet 
anyone in the lane, and even her guardian could not 
object to her taking a walk when she was left alone. 
The lark went on singing blithely over her head, and 
Drusilla's eyes ached as she strained them up to 
the blue sky in search of the invisible singer. She 
looked with some contempt across the flowerless 
waste ; for a moment her heart swelled as she re- 
membered the dazzling glow of blossoms near her 
mother’s cottage, and the exquisite scent which filled 
the air in spring-time, but the sensation flitted al- 
most as it came. 

She reflected that she had rarely cared to gather 
flowers, and that whenever in her future she wanted 
them she could always buy them if she lived in 
town, and she had made up her mind that she would 
always live in a large city. As Paris was the only 
large city she had seen, she meant to spend as much 
time as she could in Paris, unless indeed she found 
London nicer. Luke Stanmore preferred London, 
but at present she was not sure whether her lover 
liked the sort of things which pleased her. She had 
no doubt about Mr. Boyd’s tastes — he had talked 
about carriages, and horses, and diamonds, and the 
opera, and Paris, in a way which showed not only 
how much he knew about them, but also the Interest 
he took in them. 

Luke Stanmore had one day said that at first he 
should not be able to give her a carriage, though 
it would not be long before she had one. Drusilla 


JAT iNTERESTlNG IN TER VIE W. 

sighed with discontent, but she also reflected that 
she had longed to be on foot that morning in Paris 
so that she might see more into the shop windows ; 
it seemed to her also that she should be far more 
admired as she walked about, than she could be in 
the momentary glances afforded of her beauty as 
she flashed by in a carriage. Yes, there are amenities 
in being obliged to walk; but she did not intend to 
speak of them to Mr. Stanmore— he would perhaps 
think she could do altogether without a carriage, and 
ifi Drusilla’s opinion no one could really be a lady 
who did not possess a carriage and at least a pair of 
horses. She had learned a great deal from Miss 
Auricula, who delighted in telling the girl of her 
visits to country houses, and to friends in London, 
and who, while she thought she was impressing her 
attentive listener with her own grandeur, was giving 
the very information that Drusilla hungered after. 
Society papers had not then an existence. Both Dru- 
silla and Miss Auricula were deprived of what would 
have been to them a fertile source of enjoyment. 

When Miss Lescure reached the wood, she found 
it difficult to make her way between the trees; the 
thick growth of underwood was seamed with red- 
armed briars, and these caught her gown and threat- 
ened to tear it. A low, drooping branch overhead 
had nearly wrenched off her hat, and she looked 
vainly round for Mr. Boyd. 

“He ought to be here,” she said; “it is just the 
time I came here with him, and he must have known 
I should choose that time.” 


JlJlS/£ DEkklCM. 


23 > 

A pretty flush tinged her cheeks, she was tingling 
with impatience. It was so mortifying, so absurd 
in every way to have taken this trouble for nothing. 
She stood waiting, she started when a rabbit darted 
jumping to its hole and then again the sudden 
‘'chuck, chuck” of a squirrel alarmed her as it sprang 
up a tree close by. The birds kept the wood lively, 
though there was no actual singing to rival the lark 
she had left high poised above the common. 

She waited several minutes .and became very 
fretful. She kept back, so that she might not be 
seen by any chance passer through the wood. Mr. 
Yardon and Maisie would certainly come, but not 
yet ; Drusilla thought that if Mr. Boyd had been at 
his post, she might have finished her chat with him 
and been out of the wood again before Maisie and 
her grandfather quitted the Manor House. There 
was a sound at last, a low murmur, drawing nearer, 
nearer, till it took form — a man's rich voice singing — 
its owner was evidently following the path through 
the wood. 

Drusilla hid behind an old oak trunk, not so big 
a one as Harriet Foxley's shelter had been, the 
larger oak trees were all on the farther side of the 
wood. The girl had not calculated how much more 
of the back of the turn could be seen from a dis- 
tance, and she had reckoned, if this proved to be Mr. 
Boyd, to let him pass on and wait for her; she 
would come forward and join him some minutes 
after, as if she had just arrived. 

But she was disappointed. 


AAr INTERE^ThVG INTERVIEW. 


^ ^ 7 

^ O I 

He passed the tree without even turning his head, 
and then came quickly back to it. Before Brasilia 
knew that he was so near he had clasped both her 
hands tightly in his. She gave a little cry. 

“Hush,” he said, “we must be prudent, your 
guardian may come any moment ; come farther back 
behind the trees.” 

Brasilia drew one hand away, but he kept the 
other in his while he led her to a much thicker part 
of the wood, nearer to the park. There was little 
fear of discovery here. Three enormous holly 
bushes stood near together and left a triangular 
space in their midst which defied observation from 
prying eyes. 

Mr. Boyd led Brasilia to this retreat and then 
shook his head at her. 

“Little truant,” he said; “a nice dance you have 
led me. If you had not come to-day I should have 
gone up to the Hall to-morrow and dared the guard- 
ian’s anger.” 

“I could not come sooner.” She did not say this 
defiantly; she was slightly afraid of Mr. Boyd — he 
was looking so hard at her that her own eyes fell, 
and she felt a hot flush rising in her cheeks. 

“And now that you have come, what are you going 
to say to me? — or have you only come to show me 
how exquisitely lovely you can look, eh?” 

He was bending over her and Brusilla drew back. 

“Bo you mean to run away? I must prevent 
that ;” and, as he spoke, he slipped a massive gold 
bracelet over each of her slender hands. “Now you 


MAISIE DERRICtC. 


238 

are hand-cuffed,” he said, laughing; “do you like 
them?” 

“You do not mean them for me?” she said in a 
troubled voice; she longed so much for the beautiful 
things, but she knew that she dared not keep them. 

“Yes, of course; why not? They are nothing — 
mere trifles — but I thought they might please you. 
I fancied from what you said you liked jewelry, 
and my wish is to please you in all things.” 

He was looking at her earnestly now, and she 
felt at her ease again. 

“I wonder why” — she spoke very softly — “you 
should so much wish to please me? I am nothing 
to you but a mere acquaintance.” 

“Are you not? You are the only woman I have 
seen worth pleasing. If I try to please you it is 
because I cannot help it — because I love ” 

He had taken her hand again, and the ardor in 
his eyes once more startled Drusilla. 

Though she was startled, she thought it was nice 
to be loved like this; this was the sort of wooing 
her mother had predicted, when she had bid the 
girl take care of her looks — told her that men of 
all ranks would be fascinated by her beauty. The 
remembrance of Luke Stanmore came to her help. 

“I ought not to listen to you, Mr. Boyd, and I 
cannot take your gifts.” She drew off the bracelets 
and put them in his hand. “Have you not heard 
that I am going to marry Mr. Stanmore?” 

Mr. Boyd smiled, and then he looked at her 
steadily. 


AJ\r tNTPlRESrlS^G IX TER VIE W. 2:59 

‘‘I have heard that Mr. Stanmore has done a very 
selfish thing; what right has a man of his limited 
means to ask such a creature as you are to share 
them? I can give everything a woman should 
have, and yet I feel that nothing could be worthy 
of your exquisite self. You are a paragon, my 
child, a pearl as yet immured in the shell ; think 
what you will be in your proper sphere, dressed, 
as I feel you could dress, if the means were placed 
in your power.” 

Drusilla felt ready to cry. 

‘ I cannot listen to you,” she said in a vexed voice; 
“it is too late.” 

“You had better listen,” he said sternly; “listen 
before it is really too late. Miss Lescure. You 
think because this young fellow loves you” — he gave 
a contemptuous exclamation — ^‘'as if any man could 
fail to do that — and because he has taken advantage 
of your seclusion and your guardian’s tyranny to 
get your consent, that you are going to be happy with 
him; I tell you you will be nothing of the sort.” 

Drusilla aroused herself to interrupt him. 

“Of course you say that, but I don’t see how you 
can tell,” she pouted. 

He had not attempted to replace the bracelets, 
but he pressed her hand tenderly. 

“Poor little darling, poor little entrapped bird,” he 
said, “you may not care for me, but at least I will 
not let you beat your tender self against the bars of 
a cage without a warning; you think you care for 
your lover, and just now perhaps you do — you are 


24 ^ 


MAISiE DERRICK". 


his idol, he is at your feet, he will do anything to 
win a smile from you. But when you are married 
he will have to leave you every day ; you will have 
to amuse yourself in a mediocre house without the 
luxuries and daintiness and the beautiful things that 
belong to you of right. Think of your life, my dear 
child ; see for yourself how dull and monotonous 
and meager it will be. Do you care enough for Mr. 
Stanmore to make him the one object of your life; 
to find all your pleasure in listening to him and be- 
coming in his absence a good and careful housewife, 
a domestic drudge, in fact, in the effort to live 
within your modest income, bound to account for 
every shilling you spend?” 

He felt the hand he held thrill as if an electric 
touch passed through it, and he paused. 

When he began to speak again it was to describe 
his home at Beanlands, and the house he meant to 
have in London. 

“When I first saw you,” he said, “I resolved to ask 
you to be my wife, and then I learned that you had 
been inveigled into this engagement.” 

Drusilla had been standing silent, her eyes bent 
on the ground. 

“Hush!” she said, in a stifled voice. 

It was easy enough to hear footsteps; the wood 
was so seldom used as a thoroughfare that twigs 
and fallen branches lay across the path, and the 
snapping sound announced passers-by. 

Drusilla fancied it must be her guardian, and Mr, 


AN' INTERESTING INTER VIE W. ^ 4 1 

Boyd saw that she grew pale as the footsteps went 
on along the road. 

“Are you faint ?“ he whispered, and he gently put 
his arm round her. He was surprised to see tears 
falling over her face, but she did not turn from him. 

“I am so miserable,” she sobbed; “my guardian 
will be so angry if he finds out I have been with 
you !” 

She broke down, and cried passionately for 
several minutes. Her fear of her guardian puzzled 
her companion, but he did not at first try to soothe 
her. 

“I must go,” she said, when she had wiped her 
eyes, and he saw that he must not thwart her. He 
guided her slowly toward the edge of the wood, so 
that she might return, as she had come, by the com- 
mon ; now and then he said a few words, but Dru- 
silla scarcely answered him ; she hung her head, and 
looked despairing. When they reached the last 
trees, he looked at her very earnestly. 

“You will remember all I have said,” he whispered. 
“If you have courage enough to trust yourself to me, 
I will make you my wife — and once my wife, you 
need have no fear of Mr. Yardon or of anyone else.” 

He longed to kiss her, but he refrained ; he thought 
her present mood was not favorable, and he did not 
want to run any risk of offending her. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

HARRIET’S FEAR. 

Mr. Boyd’s eyes and his stern voice had so terri- 
fied Harriet that she had not spoken even to her 
father about her adventure in the wood. 

She had not even ventured to the Manor House, 
although that tea, with hot muffins, lingered in her 
memory^ and she sorely longed for the chance of 
such enjoyment. 

She was possessed with the dread of meeting the 
portly, fierce-eyed man if she went through the 
wood, and the Manor House was a long way off 
by the road. 

On this afternoon she bethought her of her offer 
to Miss Derrick. If she had a note to carry to Miss 
Savvay, Mr. Boyd would not venture, she thought, to 
stop her. She reached the Hall gates and went up 
the drive ; while she stood at the Hall door waiting 
for admittance Mr. Yardon came out. 

''Miss Derrick is not in,” he said, looking sharply 
at her. "What do you want, my girl?” 

Mr. Yardon had a tender corner in his heart for 
helpless creatures ; he was always kind to children, 
and he never spoke roughly to Harriet Foxley, 
though her uncouth appearance at his own door an- 
noyed him. 

"I want to see Miss Derrick; she said I might call 


HARRIETTS FEAR. 


-43 


for a message when I was going down to Manor 
House.” She spoke sulkily, she felt ill-used by 
Maisie’s absence ; then, in a sort of despair, she went 
on : 

“Perhaps you have a note or a word to send, sir.” 

Mr. Yardon smiled at her persistence. “I have 
just come back from seeing Miss Savvay, but if you 
want Miss Derrick you will meet her in the wood, or 
else find her at the Manor House. Warren,” — the 
butler had just come to answer Harriet’s ring, — “do 
you know which way Miss Lescure went?” 

‘H saw her pass the gate, sir, going that way, sir, ’ 
he pointed up the hill. 

Mr. Yardon turned away and went down the drive. 
He heard footsteps behind him, but he did not look 
round. He was anxious to meet Drusilla. He had 
felt very tender toward her in these last days, and 
he asked himself why he had been in such haste to 
part from her and give her away to Luke Stanmore. 
It would have been easy enough, he reflected, to 
keep admirers aloof if he had chosen to take steps to 
that end. Before he reached the gates Harriet s 
voice sounded like a croak beside him. The woman 
was afraid of Mr. Yardon. Though he spoke kindly 
to her there was always in his face the latent indica- 
tions of a frown. 

“Please, sir,” in an unusually humble tone, “have 
you come across by the wood from Manor House?” 

Mr. Yardon did frown now. 

“Yes,” he said, “I did. What makes you ask?” 

She hung her head and looked guilty. “It’s 


244 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


only — I’m wanting to know if there’s a man in the 
wood?” her voice had sunk to a whisper. 

“A man? no.” Her manner puzzled him. 
“Speak out,” he said more gently; “tell me what 
you mean about a man in the wood.” 

Harriet looked cunning. Here was a chance to 
wreak her spite on Mr. Boyd, but she did not want 
to get into trouble. 

“It’s a stout man,” she said slowly; “he’s red- 
whiskered and red-faced ; maybe he goes to the 
wood to meet his sweetheart. I’m not telling tales, 
I’m feared on him, so there.” She looked with a 
frightened stare into the lane, and Mr. Yardon saw 
she was telling the truth. 

“There was no one in the wood just now,” he 
said ; “go back, my girl, go back, take the short way 
through the shrubbery there and across my 
meadows; you’ll surely meet Miss Derrick on the 
way.” 

He went on briskly toward the common without 
waiting for thanks. Mr. Yardon was no longer 
even middle-aged, yet up-hill or level made no 
difference to him ; he delighted in long walks, and 
he never walked slowly. For a little while he 
enjoyed the fresh, breezy air of the common, and 
then Harriet’s words came back to him. She had 
described Mr. Boyd. It was evident that the 
woman had surprised the fellow with some village 
girl, and Mr. Yardon gathered that Boyd had 
threatened her or frightened her in some way or she 
would have spoken more freely. 


HARRIET'S FEAR, 


"45 


Ill's lip curled. He had already decided that 
Captain Wentworth’s visitor was commonplace and 
purse-proud. It did not surprise him that he had 
low tastes, but he was indignant that Mr. Boyd 
should use the wood for his stolen interviews. It 
was almost on the Hall property, and he considered 
he had a personal right of way through it. He 
wished now he had questioned Harriet further; a 
man of Mr. Boyd’s type might do serious mischief. 
He wished the vicar could get a hint of the matter- 

He laughed at himself for an old woman ; why 
should he trouble himself about the morals of the 
village girls. 

“If a woman means mischief she’ll go into it no 
matter what the hindrance is.’’ He looked very 
bitter as he walked on, and he congratulated himself 
on the seclusion in which her mother had reared 
Drusilla. The bitter look lingered, however, till he 
caught sight of his ward sitting on a little hillock 
below an enormous gorse-bush. Her face was 
turned toward him, but she did not rise, and he 
fancied she had been crying. 

“Tired, Ladybird?” he spoke affectionately, but 
Drusilla did not smile at him. “I twisted my foot,” 
she said, plaintively, “so I sat down here ; will you 
help me up, I am afraid I can’t walk alone.” 

He bent over her with a tenderness she had 
never seen in him. “Poor pet,” he said softly, 
“which is the lame foot; if it still pains you, I will 
go and fetch the carriage.” 

The anxiety in his stern face amused her. As 


246 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


she stood leaning on his arm she became aware 
that she had alarmed herself causelessly, her foot 
had been slightly twisted ; the rest on the thyme 
bank had eased the pain. 

“I can walk, thank you.” 

He pressed her hand with his arm. “That’s 
right,” he said cheerfully; “lean on me, dear child, 
as heavily as you like, I shan’t get many more walks 
with you, shall I?” 

Drusilla had scarcely ever seen him in such a 
mood as this; he had more than once shown her a 
glimpse of affection, he had even been tender for a 
few moments, but he had always repressed these 
indications of warm feeling by the restrained manner 
that seemed habitual to him. Now she saw that his 
eyes were glistening with kindness; he seemed to 
be willing for once that natural feeling should have 
its way. Drusilla waited ; this opportunity was too 
good to be lost, but she was unwilling to be too 
premature lest she should send her guardian back 
into the shell which she had once or twice found 
impenetrable. 

“How long will Miss Savvay stay at the Manor 
House?” she said carelessly. 

“Miss Savvay told us to-day she should be here 
till August ; she means to stay on after you leave, 
for Maisie’s sake,” 

“Does she think Maisie will miss me?” the girl 
said shyly, and then she looked up into her 
guardian’s face, and she met his fond, fatherly 
smile. 


HARRIET'S FEAR. 


247 


''I want to tell you something if you will promise 
not to be angry,” she said, in a sweet, coaxing tone. 
”We are so near home now, shall I tell you when 
we get in, dear, or ” 

This was a second thought ! Drusilla reflected 
that if her guardian were to become very angry, and 
she had the impression that his anger might be 
violent if fully aroused, it would be far easier to 
leave him indoors than how she now was, clinging 
to his arm on the common. 

“Just as you like,” he said, but he was pleased 
that she wished to prolong the interview. He felt 
impatient when on reaching the hall he was told 
that the vicar was waiting for him. 

”Go into my study,” he said to Drusilla. ‘T will 
come to you as soon as I can.” 

The girl was glad of the respite thus given her, 
she wanted a few moments to reflect in. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A REVELATION. 

Mr. Vernon stayed so long that he at Hst saw. 
his host’s impatience and departed. 

The interval had given Drusilla time to consider 
her position. Mr. Yardon called himself her 
guardian, and assumed authority over her, but his 
gentleness to-day had lessened her fear of him ; after 
all, she told herself, he could only be angry, and she 
must make up her mind to risk offending him. 

“There is no rose without a thorn,” she said 
gayly. She heard Mr. Yardon coming across the 
hall, and she settled herself into a bewitching 
attitude near his high-backed chair. 

He stroked her sunny hair as he seated himself. 

“Well, sweetheart, what is it we are to discuss?” 

“You will not be angry.” She looked up at him 
curiously. 

“I dare say not — I can’t tell.” 

“Yes, you can tell, you can if you choose at least; 
you are so wise that surely you can keep from being 
angry if you like.” 

He nodded and looked expectant. “Go on,” he 
said. 

“I have been thinking,” she spoke gravely, “and 
I find that 1 do not wish to marry Mr. Stanmore — 


A REVELATIO.V. 


249 

there now,” she raised her finger. “I ask you not 
to be angry.” 

His face was very red and he was frowning so 
that she could not see his eyes. 

”I have a right to be angry,” he said. “Only a 
week or so ago I offered to release you from this 
engagement ; you abided by it, and ever since you 
and Stanmore have been like a pair of turtle-doves; 
may I ask ” 

She looked perfectly calm, his frown and his con- 
temptuous tone did not even bring a flush to her 
cheeks. 

”No,.we have not quarreled, but I have had time 
to think and see that I cannot be happy with Mr. 
Stanmore; the life he wishes me to lead will not suit 
me; you wish me to be happy, do you not?” She 
said this so earnestly that he was startled. 

“You know I wish it, child,” he left ofT frown- 
ing; “I should not have listened to Stanmore if I 
had not felt sure he would make you a good hus- 
band.” 

“Ah, but,” she smiled winningly at him, “I did not 
say he would be anything but very good ; but I 
want something more than a good husband.” She 
had begun to twine her fingers together; his keen 
gaze had made her at last nervous. “I,” she went on 
hurriedly,” I have met with some one who likes me 
as well as Mr. Stanmore does, and who can give me 
all 1 want.” 

She spoke slowly, for her courage sank under the 
gathering sternness in his eyes; she could not tell 


250 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


how it was, but under that look her proposal seemed 
false and foolish. 

‘'Explain yourself,” he said bitterly. “I cannot 
grasp your meaning.” 

Drusilla felt sullen; she thought Mr. Yardon was 
treating her like a criminal, when she was acting so 
honestly toward him, but she strove to keep her 
anger under control. 

‘‘I cannot marry Mr. Stanmore,” she said calmly^ 
‘‘and I ask you to tell him this. 1 prefer not to 
see him again.” 

Mr. Yardon was too indignant to notice the 
quiver in her voice, or he might have heard in it a 
hope for Luke Stanmore. 

‘‘And the reason you offer for this modest confes- 
sion is that you have seen some one who can give 
you all you want. Do you wish to sell yourself, you 
shameless child?” 

Drusilla rose up ; she was white with anger, and 
her dark eyes flamed. 

“You are rude, Mr. Yardon; you have no right 
to speak to me so. I had no need to consult you, 
but I wished to be honest ; of course I should not 
wish to marry Mr. Boyd if I did not like him.” 

Mr. Yardon brought his fist down on his desk 
Vv’ith a crash. 

''Curse Mr. Boyd ! When have you seen the 
fellow? He has not ventured to show his face here 
since I gave him the cold shoulder.” 

He suddenly grasped both arms of his chair, and 
looked at Drusilla. She stood very erect, but she 


A kEVELATlOS\ 

was trembling; her color faded rapidly into white- 
ness, and then burned hotly on her cheek. 

'‘Sit down,” he said hoarsely. She did not stir; 
he rose, and taking her by both arms he placed her 
in her chair. 

‘‘Is it you,” he went on, “who have been meeting 
this man in the wood, exposing yourself to insult and 
to scandal like a common village trollop? Has this 
been you, Drusilla? Answer me.” 

Drusilla kept silence; she turned away her face; 
she was not quivering now, she looked scornful and 
defiant at his injustice. 

‘‘Do you think a gentleman,” he went on, ‘‘would 
place his wife or anyone he meant to respect in such 
a position? Mr. Boyd is not a man to be trusted 
by a woman, you foolish child ; he is wholly inferior 
to the man you have deceived.” 

“Perhaps;” she did not turn round, but he felt 
that she was sneering. “I never said Mr. Boyd 
was as good as Mr. Stanmore is; he suits me 
better, that’s alt.” 

Mr. Yardon shrank back into his chair as though 
she had struck him. He covered his face with his 
hands, and there was silence for some minutes. 

When Mr. Yardon spoke there was a tone of 
defeat in his voice. 

“Do you mean to ask my advice in this matter?” 

She turned round and looked at him inquiringly. 

“That depends. It seems to me that I have a 
right to do as I please. I consult you only because 
you have been kind to me, and because you are Mr. 


2 5 2 A/A I SI E DERRICK. 

Stanmore’s friend. I am free. You call yourself 
my guardian, but you are not related to me ; there is 
no use in trying to drive me, my mother tried that.'’ 

He gave her a long, yearning look, but her eyes 
were full of defiance; he began to walk up and 
down the room. 

“How coiild you deceive me so, child?” he said 
at last. “I saw you, as I believed, happy in the 
thought of your marriage, making that poor fellow, 
too, believe 3^011 loved him ; that is the worst part 
of it, Drusilla; and all the while 3^ou were meeting 
this man and encouraging his proposals.” 

“You exaggerate,” she said coldly. “I have seen 
Mr. Boyd twice, and he only proposed to me to- 
day; besides, do 3^011 suppose I am the only girl 
who ever changed her mind?” 

His anger rose again. 

“You have seen this man twice and yet you are 
willing to marry him ; listen, Drusilla — how do 3^ou 
know Bo3"d means honestly by you ; do you even 
know he is all he professes to be — you have only his 
word for it. Good Heavens! my girl — do you 
know that when a young thing like you has left her 
home against her parent’s wishes, she has some- 
times gone back to it disgraced, ashamed to look 
anyone in the face?” 

Drusilla stamped her foot with impatience. 

“If you arrange with Mr. Stanmore, I can make 
it right ; I can marry Mr. Bo3"d in the usual way,” 
she said. “I very much prefer to have a proper 
wedding.” 


RI^:i^ELAT/OA\ 


253 


SIic checked her anger, and smiled in her pretty, 
bright way ; it seemed to her he must give way for 
her sake — if she continued firm. 

''And if I refuse my consent to such a marriage?” 

She looked at him carefully, there was more ap- 
peal than anger in her eyes. 

"You will not refuse me, you cannot ; it will make 
me quite happy if you consent.” 

He had been standing in front of her, now he 
turned impatiently away. 

“Would a mother give her child poison if it asked 
for it? Listen, Drusilla, this is a matter in which 
you must trust yourself to my judgment. You 
promised of your own free will to marry Mr. Stan- 
more ; he has not given you any reason for break- 
ing your word.” - 

“There is no use in repeating that.” She spoke 
wearily. 

“1 say also that there is no use in asking me to 
break my word. I told Stanmore that I wished you 
to be his wife, and you were willing; I cannot now 
say to him I wish you to marry Mr. Boyd ; because 
I will not say it, it would be a falsehood. I prefer 
that you should never see the fellow again.” 

Drusilla rose. 

“Well, then,” she said, “I must act for myself; I 
shall tell Mr. Stanmore that I cannot marry him.” 

Mr. Yardon again walked up and down the room 
in an agitation that puzzled Drusilla. She did not 
think he was angry, but she saw he was thoroughly 
unlike himself. At last he stopped in front of her; 


254 


nrju^ick\ 


he cleared his throat, yet when his voice Caiiic it 
sounded hoarse : 

“I ask you to give up Mr. Boyd as a simple act of ' 
obedience.'’ 

“I cannot do so; I am sorry, for you have been 
very kind ; but there is no reason why I should obey 
you." 

She was sorry now that she had confided in him; 
it was so difficult to listen to him patiently. 

“And if I tell you there is a reason for your 
obedience, if I say I must be obeyed because I am 
your mother's husband, I am your own father, what 
then, eh?" 

There was a strange contrast between the two faces ; 
the man’s showed a longing hunger for his child’s 
affection; Drusilla’s face beamed with triumph, and 
her next words gave the key to this expression : 

“My mother’s husband, sir? are you sure, quite 
sure, you were married to her?" 

“My poor child," he laid his hand gently on her 
hair, “I am sure; you have a right to be called 
Yardon — your mother's name was Lescure. But, 
Drusilla, have you not a word or a kiss for your 
father?" 

He said this abruptly; his feelings were getting 
the mastery over him, and he could hardly control 
them ; it -was pitiful to see how this hard man 
yearned for his child’s love. Drusilla rose as he 
spoke and offered him her cool cheek to kiss, but 
she made no attempt to caress him. For a moment 
or two, as she felt his arms round her, and his warm 


A J^£:P^£l.lTIdA\ 


f - 

“jj 

kisses on her forehead, something stirred in her, 
but even this was hardly spontaneous feeling; it was 
a sense of possession, of rest, and help, rather than 
of affection ; all this time she had thought herself 
fatherless, for if her father lived she believed he had 
not been her mother’s husband, and now she had a 
home as well as a father, she was better off than 
Maisie ; she could have laughed and shouted out 
her joy at this discovery, and then as quickly sus- 
picion fell across her triumph like a smear. 

Why had she and her mother lived alone in that 
poor cottage all those years? Drusilla could recall a 
time before that, when they lived for a short while by 
the sea; she had had a father then, but he was tall 
and he had fair hair, he could not have been Mr. 
Yardon. 

The girl was never garrulous; even when she felt 
happiest she spoke little, and now she waited for 
her father’s explanation. 

He seated himself beside her and kept her hand 
in his. 

“I had intended to tell you this on your wedding 
day, so you have only learned it a little sooner.” 
He paused, looking tenderly at her, and then turned 
away as he spoke again. 

“There is, I am aware,” he said stiffly, “an explana- 
tion due to you, my child, but it is painful to me to 
give it, for it must cast blame on others. You 
would never had heard the whole truth, Drusilla, 
but for what has just passed between us. I think 
now it may be a safeguard to you to know it, un- 


256 


MAlSIE DEkk!Ck\- 


less,” he looked at her with grave sadness, “un- 
less it will gieatly distress you to hear me blame 
your mother.” 

She raised her head, which had drooped as he 
began. 

“No, I knew she was not good; you had better 
tell me, I want to know all about myself.” 

“Poor child!” he pressed the hand he still held; 
“who could be hard on you? not I, but I must save 
you if I can from your mother's fate,” 

He let go her hand and passed his own slowly 
across his forehead, as if he were trying to brighten 
into more distinct vision the recollection of earlier 
years. 

“I had a great sorrow,” he began abruptly, “and 
I could not bear to go on living among all that re- 
called it. Twenty years ago I went abroad, I met 
with your mother, Drusilla; she was as beautiful as 
you are, but you are not like her, child, thank 
God!” 

He rose and walked up and down before he went 
on : 

“We were soon married. I kept it secret, for I 
was ashamed of having married so soon. I suppose 
I was infatuated. I saw your mother living in a 
pretty home with an old woman whom she called 
aunt, and I asked no questions. I knew afterward 
that the old woman was a mere acquaintance, your 
mother's companion. It seems to me now that I 
acted like a fool. I soon learned that your mother 
had married me because she thought I was an 


A REVELATIOIV, 


257 


English millionaire, and as long as I gave her all she 
wished for, she seemed pleased and kind ; I knew 
she did not love me, but I hoped to win her love. 

'‘We were spending the winter in the Riviera 
when you were born. I had been dissatisfied for 
some months with your mother, but I hoped the 
baby’s birth would bring us together. You were 
just a month old when I was summoned to Paris on 
business; your mother pleaded to be left behind — • 
the weather was chilly, unfit for a young child to 
travel. I have told you enough. Drusilla, your 
mother had had a rich lover before she married me, 
and she wanted to go back to him. I saw her once 
again, for I would not believe, till she confessed, that 
the story I had heard in Paris was true. I wronged 
you then, for I left you with her and refused to 
accept you as my child ; for years I heard nothing 
of you or your mother either. When you were 
about twelve she wrote and begged for help, she 
had been deserted for several years, and had had to 
earn her living, but she was very ill, and when she 
wrote to me, she knew that she could not live many 
years. In that appeal she satisfied me that I was 
really your father, and I arranged to care for you 
whenever you should be left alone; your mother 
begged that you might be spared to her while she 
lived ; she promised me that you should be brought 
up at Sentis, and that you should be kept from any 
knowledge of evil.” 

There was silence. Even at that distance Drusilla 
could hear the doves cooing from the stables and 


2SS 


MAtSlE DERRICKS 


the twinkle of the red cow’s bell as she came in to 
be milked in the farmyard. 

She felt wronged e#.d resentful. It was her 
father’s fault that her childhood had been so lonely. 
She looked sullen and he guessed at her thoughts; 
he again sat down beside her and took her slim 
hand in his. 

“You think I ought to have claimed you sooner, 
so as to give you a better education ; but remember 
I already reproached myself for the misery your 
mother had had to suffer during the time that she 
had been left deserted, and she asked me to leave 
you with her; I ascertained that there was a school 
at the Sentis convent, and it was not possible that 
your mother could come to England. I did not 
return there myself till my son-in-law died, and then 
I resolved to go home, and take my daughter and 
her child to live with me. That was not to be, 
however, and when I saw my grand-daughter I 
thought she could never be a daughter to me. I 
heard at intervals of your mother’s declining health, 
and settled that if, when I saw you, I could receive 
you as my child, I would give you a home. Weeks 
before you came here, my Drusilla, I had planned 
that you should be Stanmore’s wife.’’ 

His strange flow of speech and the glistening, 
longing gaze with which he watched her face had 
fascinated Drusilla. Her mother’s story had called 
up such a vision of misery and sorrow that the girl’s 
feelings softened. Her poor mother, how hardly 
she had felt toward her strict severe rules, which 


A RE VELA TIOiV. 


259 


the girl now saw had been prompted by the de- 
sire of keeping her child from the evils to which 
she had yielded herself. Drusilla felt herself grow- 
ing older as these thoughts passed in review 
before her. 

She looked up at her father, and raising his hand 
to her lips she kissed it. 

“Your life has been spoiled,” she said ; “first by 
my mother, and now I have brought trouble into 
it;” she smiled, and added brightly: “Is it not a risk 
to couple people who have not met? I think Mai- 
sic would suit Mr. Stanmore far better than I ever 
could.” 

Mr. Yardon winced. Drusilla’s calm tones jarred 
him at such a time; he felt that she did not love 
him. 

“No, I think you are wrong there; they are too 
much alike to make one another happy; opposite 
qualities in a husband and wife give each that which 
is wanting in the other; that is what people say, you 
know, and I fancy there is some truth in the say- 
ing.” 

He leaned back in his chair and looked very 
thoughtful. Drusilla could hardly help gaping, it 
was such an effort to keep up to Ws level of excit- 
ing feeling; she did not object to act a part if it 
would serve any purpose; she had acted both with 
Mr. Stanmore and Mr. Boyd, but then she had 
reaped praise and admiration in a way that had 
soothed her, and she did not feel inclined to act 
filial devotion unless something real, or at any rate 


26 o 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


pleasant, was to be gained by it. She began to 
wonder if she might leave the study. 

“There is still something more. If I understand 
you, child, it is not Stanmore you shrink from but 
his want of a large income.” The girl started ; it 
seemed to her that he had read her thoughts. 
“Even on that point you are mistaken. He is safe 
to come to the front and to win money as well as 
distinction. His wife will probably become Lady 
Stanmore — but that is not what I wish to say. I 
am a much richer man than you fancy, Drusilla; 
richer than anyone knows except my lawyer.” 

It seemed to him that she became more attentive 
as he went on. “You have a large claim on me as 
my daughter. If you marry to please me, I can 
settle enough on you to give you an independent 
income. If you and your husband are prudent and 
free from extravagance you will be able to live easily 
and with all the comforts you can wish for.” 

A question burned on Drusilla’s lips. “Can I 
have a carriage?” she longed to say, but her father’s 
sad, almost pathetic face subdued her. 

“In that case,” she said slowly, “I ought I suppose 
to get handsomer clothes and things than I had 
thought of doing,” 

He bent his head. 

“I went over this afternoon to see Miss Savvay 
about this, and I am to tell you that she puts her- 
self at your disposal. You have only to write and 
fix a day for going to London and she is ready to 
accompany you.” 


A REVELATION. 


261 


There was still a sadness in his eyes; he felt that 
Drusilla was farther from him now than when she 
had been his ward. 

“May I have time to think?” she said. 

“Surely, your decision is far too important to be 
made in a hurry. Let me have your answer to- 
morrow morning.” 

He rose and kissed her forehead, then he held 
the door open for her to pass out of the study. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 
drusilla’s decision. 

From Shakespeare's days, and long before them, 
time has flown all too swiftly between the date 
named for a marriage and the day itself. So much 
has to be done, and there is such constant distrac- 
tion offered from without, that day speeds after day 
without fulfilling that which was to have been ac- 
complished in it. 

Mr. Yardon was once more infatuated by Drusilla 
as he read her prettily worded note. In it she 
thanked him for his goodness to her and for the 
confidence she had shown her. “I am willing to 
marry Mr. Stanmore,” she ended, “and I hope my 
dear father will forget the nonsense I talked.” 

Her father felt years younger while he reread 
the childish words. He went to the girl’s room 
and praised her for her submissiveness, and Drusilla 
kissed him in a loving, daughterly way that xom- 
pleted her fascination. 

She was, however, self-willed on one point. She 
asked him to keep the secret of her birth till after 
her marriage, giving as her reason that she did not 
want to have to talk it over with Maisie. 

Mr. Yardon consented, but he resolved that his 
lovely child should be spared any temptations to 
break faith. He wrote to Mr. Stanmore that the 


262 


DRUSILLA'S DECISION. 


263 


wedding must take place in three weeks, and he 
settled with Miss Savvay and with Maisie that all 
should be ready by that time. 

Drusilla looked astonished when he announced 
his decision, but she yielded with a gentleness that 
delighted him. 

She was surprised at herself and at her own 
defeat ; she did not know how potently her father's 
assurance that she would have an income of her own 
had weighed against her chances of life with Mr. 
Boyd. She knew very well that if she made a run- 
away marriage she should forfeit this income and 
be wholly dependent on her husband. Mr. Boyd 
would be less exacting, she fancied, than Mr. Stan- 
more would be, but she shrank from being entirely 
at his mercy now that her horizon had mounted by 
the change in her own position. After all, the 
difference between the two men meant the loss of a 
few trinkets, and Mr. Stanmore was so generous 
and so devoted that she should be able to get all 
she wanted from him. She was growing fond of 
Luke Stanmore in her way, and she even began to 
look with some impatience to his daily visits. 

Maisie fancied as she watched the girl that her 
lover’s influence had raised Drusilia’s tone, and this 
was perhaps her chief merit in Maisie’s eyes. 
Drusilla seerned really to care for her promised 
husband. 

Maisie had grown thin and Miss Savvay thought 
she looked years older, but no one had a right to 
guess from any outward sign how keenly the girl 


264 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


had suffered. The sharpest anguish of all had how- 
ever been softened to her. Since the day when 
Stanmore had claimed her help, Maisie had been 
sensible of a change of feeling toward him. She 
loved him perhaps as much, but the nature of her 
love had changed : she no longer craved for his. His 
happiness was dearer to her than ever, for it seemed 
to her more doubtful ; but she could at least work 
for it in the way he had pointed out. Perhaps she 
had not entirely believed in Stanmore’s love for 
Drusilla, and her own hope, however unconscious, 
perished when he asked for her help. Maisie 
shrank from cherishing this dead hope, for she now 
believed it to be founded on a mistake. Mr. Stan- 
more had always meant to be her friend, nothing 
more, and for his sake she had devoted herself to 
Drusilla. She had watched the girl closely, and if 
Luke Stanmore had given her the opportunity, she 
could have told him that Harriet’s story was a false- 
hood ; but she never saw Mr. Stanmore alone — 
Drusilla knew when to expect him and she was 
generally on the watch for her lover. It was a 
relief to Maisie to be spared the pain of meeting 
him — he was always kind, but his constrained 
manner was more painful than complete indifference. 

She told herself that time would cure the pain 
she suffered, but it was a great relief to learn that 
Mr. Stanmore had taken a house in London, and 
would not return to Figgsmarsh when he and 
Drusilla came back from their wedding journey. 

Only four days now to that fixed for the wedding, 


DRUSILLA'S DECISION, 


265 


and Maisie wished they were over. Everything 
was done that could be done at home. The vicar 
and Miss Auricula, Miss Savvay and her nephew, 
would be the only guests. Mr. Stanmore’s one 
living relative, a cousin, had sent a handsome gift 
to the young couple, but she was too much of an 
invalid to travel. Maisie would only have to 
arrange the flowers on the marriage day and help 
the bride to dress. 5he had been glad to hear that 
Mr. Boyd had left the Manor House. Maisie had 
taken a singular dislike to the red-whiskered man. 
when he came to the Hall. 

It had been a tiring day; several presents had 
arrived, and Maisie had unpacked and repacked 
them so as to exhibit them to her visitors from the 
Manor House and the Vicarage. 

Mr. Ray had come down over night and the settle- 
ments had been signed this morning. Maisie had 
been surprised by Drusilla’s haughty manner to the 
lawyer — she had not onl/ been haughty, but as in- 
different as if she had never seen him before. Mr. 
Ray had been perhaps rather effusive when he first 
met his lovely fellow-traveler, but Maisie thought 
that he only meant kindly and she was pained by 
Drusilla’s repressiveness. 

He was gone, and as Mr. Stanmore had been up to 
the Hall in the evening, he was not expected to 
come again. Maisie gave a sigh of relief as she at 
last sat down in the library to rest. 

Drusilla had gone .to her room after lunch; she 
had not seen any of the afternoon visitors. 


266 


MAI SI E DERRICK, 


'‘I have a good deal to see about in my room,” she 
said; ”you can do very well without me.” 

As Maisie sat resting in one of the high-backed 
chairs, the only luxuries in the library at Yardon, 
she thought how strange it was that in the weeks 
they had spent together real confidence had not 
grown up between her and Drusilla Lescure. She 
had taken the girl on trust as her grandfather’s 
ward, but she knew no more about Drusilla than 
Christabella did about the dark-haired Geraldine. 

”Was it her fault or Drusilla’s,” Maisie wondered, 
that they had remained, with an outward show of 
intimacy, really strangers to one another. Her face 
burned as she remembered that but for the reticence 
she had observed toward the girl Drusilla might 
have discovered Maisie’s mistake about Luke Stan- 
more ; perhaps she had done this and felt constrained 
by the knowledge. 

“It has been all for the best,” Maisie said; “I was 
getting to love her till I saw the truth. I should 
soon have been devoted to her. It is best as it is; 
I shall not miss her when she goes. I shall be able 
to give myself up wholly to my grandfather. He 
will miss her sadly.” 

She was interrupted — the butler came in to say 
she was wanted. A poor cottager, with a baby only 
a week old, had been suddenly taken ill, and she 
had begged her husband to fetch Miss Derrick. 

“ril go at once, Warren. If Miss Lescure asks 
for me you can tell her where I am,” 


blWSlLLA'S DECISION,' 267 

“Miss Lescure is out, ma’am; went out an hour 
or so ago.” 

It was six o’clock, an unusual time for either of 
the girls to go out walking, and Drusilla had said 
she was tired. Maisie thought she was probably in 
the garden, but there was no time to lose, and she 
hurried down to the gate. The nearest way to the 
cottage for which she was bound was up some steps 
cut in the hedge bank, and over a stile set in the 
hedge itself on the other side of the lane from the 
Hall, and nearer the common.- 

By the time Maisie had crossed the fields and 
reached the cottage, which stood alone in a rough 
road, she found the woman better. A neighbor 
had come in to stay the night with her, and there 
was no need for Miss Derrick’s presence. She 
stayed a few minutes, and then went away, promis- 
ing to come again in the morning. 

The evening was darker than usual, for a dense, 
dark purple bank of cloud had risen in the west, 
and, though a golden light still showed above this, 
it had become cold and pale. 

There was plenty of light on the field path, but 
the hedges were in gloomy shadow. 

The woman’s husband had asked to see Miss 
Derrick home, on account of its being late, but 
Maisie had declined this offer. All at once she 
felt afraid. It seemed to her that a tall, dark figure 
was moving swiftly along in her direction, keeping 
beside the hedge on her right. She walked faster 


MAIS/E DERRICK, 


£6S 

and faster so as to reach the stile first, and as she 
strained her eyes to see if she were gaining on her 
pursuer it seemed to her that there were two figures, 
one larger than the other — a man and a woman she 
fancied. 

She smiled, and felt reassured. 

'‘A pair of village lovers,” she thought, ‘'skulking 
under the hedge to avoid notice and she walked on 
rapidly to the stile without taking any more heed of 
the skulkers. 

She crossed the stile, and looked back from the top 
of the bank, and then turned sick with a sudden dread. 

The dark slender figure was some way in advance 
of the other. The face was turned away, but Maisie 
felt sure that the turn of the head, the graceful, 
gliding walk, and the large hat with its drooping 
feather were Drusilla's. Well, why not? Drusilla 
and Mr. Stanmore had settled to take along walk to- 
gether this evening. Maisie’s eyes went on to 
Drusilla’s companion. It was not Mr. Stanmore; it 
was a man, but he was shorter and much stouter in 
make. He looked like a stranger. 

Maisie stood with her hand on the stile. She 
wondered whether she ought not to go back and meet 
Drusilla, but she shrank from doing this. The figure 
in the shadow of the hedge might be Mr. Yardon. 

It did not look like her grandfather, but there was 
always the possible doubt. She turned away and, 
going down the steps, crossed over to the Hall gates, 
half-way up the drive. She stood there and waited. 
Presently the gate clicked, but Drusilla did not over- 


DRVSTLLA^S DECISION. 


269 


take her. The person who came in passed up the 
drive on the farther side of the rhododendron clump 
to that on which Maisie stood. The light tread told 
that it was a woman, 

Maisie waited till the hall door had opened and 
closed, and then she went through the side shrubbery 
walk on to the lawn. Mr. Yardon was pacing up and 
down below the drawing-room windows. 

“Where have you been?” he said gravely. “It is 
too late for you to be out alone. You would have 
done wisely to imitate Drusilla. Matthews tells me 
she has been resting in her room ever since lunch.” 

Maisie explained in a confused manner her own 
summons to the sick woman, and then she hurried 
away from her grandfather as quickly as she could. 
She felt guilty of Drusilla’s secret, yet she could not 
speak of what she had seen till she had asked the 
girl its meaning. 

The dressing-bell had rung before she reached her 
room, and Mr. Yardon was exactingly punctual. Mai- 
sie knew that it was useless to see Drusilla before 
dinner. She counted on the time they usually spent 
together while Mr. Yardon retired to his study fora 
quiet nap. But this evening Drusilla lingered in the 
dining-room. 

“Must you have a nap?” she said; “mayn’t I stay 
in here with you?” 

Her father looked grave from the effort he made to 
repress his delight. 

“I will come with you into the drawing-room,” he 
said “and you shall sing me some French songs,” 


maisie eeeeici^. 


2y6 

“Sing you to sleep, eh !“ but as they rose from 
table she took his hand and drew it under her arm. 

Maisie opened the door for them to pass out ; she 
was puzzled by the new tenderness of Drusilla’s 
manner. Her grandfather, too, had changed, she fan- 
cied ; he did not joke and laugh with his ward as he 
used to. He was now often grave when he spoke to 
her; but Maisie thought she saw even more affection 
in his eyes than there used to be when they rested on 
Drusilla. 

She felt sad and isolated ; it must surely be her own 
fault that she had failed to win her grandfather’s 
love in ever so small a degree, when this stranger had 
so quickly conquered his whole affection — and seem- 
ingly without any special effort to please him. She 
was thinking of this as she walked slowly across the 
hall to the library ; Drusilla’s sweet thin voice was 
singing the refrain : 

— Majolaine 
Ma jolie Majolaine ! 

“I am jealous,” Maisie said, as she looked out acro.ss 
the darkened grass-plot and saw how black the elm 
branches were against the cool gray sky. “I have con- 
quered one jealousy only to fall into another, and 
jealousy is such a mean, pitiful feeling.” 

She wondered at herself — how she could think it 
possible that anyone could prefer her to Drusilla, or 
even like her nearly as well. She had been fascinated 
by the girl when she first saw her, and she knew 
that such qualities as Drusilla’s were far more capti- 
vating to men than they were to women. 


DRUSTLLA'S; DECisrOA'. 


“1 am jealous/' she repeated, “and so I fancy all 
sorts of evil about poor Drusilla; I even thought she 
was pretending just now to be fonder of grandfather 
than she really felt." 

The door between the drawing-room and the li- 
brary opened and Drusilla came softly in. She went 
up to Maisie and put her arm round her. 

“Talk out loud to me," she said, I want to whisper 
to you. Do not say to anyone that you saw me in 
the field ; I saw you and I will tell you about it later." 


CHAPTER XXX. 

PLAIN-SPEAKING. 

Maisie sat brushing her hair before her dressing- 
table; she had guessed that Drusilla meant to pay 
her a visit, but as time went on, and the girl did not 
come, Maisie took down a favorite book and began 
to read. She soon found this unsatisfactory. She 
put down her book, and began to gather up her rich 
shining hair into two long tails; then she once more 
tried to read. But she was too restless; something, 
a feeling that she could not define, warned her to be 
on the alert, to keep all her faculties awake, so that 
she might prevent mischief. 

And yet, what could she do? Maisie asked herself. 
She looked at her watch — half-past eleven, and then 
she remembered that her watch had been slow when 
she compared it with the clock in the library. 

The day had been mild rather than warm, yet 
Maisie found the air of her room oppressive. It 
seemed to her, as she sat thinking, that it was her own 
fault that she was so perplexed. It would have been 
so much more simple and natural if she had called 
out to Drusilla from the stile, or at any rate if she 
had waited to come indoors with her. 

She went to her window and looked out. The 
dense bank of purple cloud now looked leaden as it 
spread ufiward, the whole sky was rapidly darkening, 


PL A nV-SPEA KING. 


the wind had risen and it howled among the tall 
elm trees that sheltered the house on either side. A 
gauze-like mass of black vapor came from the west 
and scudded acoss the gray overhead as if it were the 
herald of coming tempest. Maisie leaned out and 
watched the filmy veil swept by the wind round the 
farthest angle of the Hall ; she suddenly drew back 
from the window and retreated a few steps into the 
room. Near her came a murmur of voices and one of 
them was surely Drusilla’s. 

Maisie did not stop to reflect ; her only idea was 
to find the girl — she shaded her candle with her hand 
as she left her room and closed the door behind her ; 
then she went swiftly across the dark passage and 
down the few steps that led to the landing with the 
baize door. 

She tried this, but it would not open, and fan- 
cying it had stuck fast, she set her candle down 
on the short stair-flight. The flame flickered 
wildly in an eddy of wind that had got into the 
house, and Maisie feared she should be left in 
darkness, while she strove with both hands to open 
the door. It would not move ; evidently some 
one had drawn the bolt on the farther side. She 
stood still, wondering who could have fastened 
it. She was the only occupant on this side of the 
house, on this floor; there were servants overhead, 
but they communicated only with a back stair- 
case. The closing of this door cut her off from every 
one. Maisie felt indignant, but she had no power of 
redress; she could not rouse the household for the 


274 


MAtSIE DERRICK. 


sake of having that door unbolted. It was, she sup-';] 
posed, a servant’s carelessness. ^ 

She took up her candle and went back to her room. 
There was an eerie feeling about it, now that she 
knew how completely isolated she was. 

But her adventure had quieted her restlessness., 
She reflected that the voices she had heard might 
be those of the servants on the upper floor; it was; 
possible that they too had opened their windows and 
had leaned out, talking. Maisie undressed and said; 
her prayers; she had put out her candles, when a; 
tap came at the door. 

The girl was so startled that she could hardly strike! 
a match, but while she relit a candle Drusilla’s voice 
said cheerfully, “Can’t I come in? It’s only me.’’ 

Maisie opened the door, and the girl came in. 
She had thrown a black cloak over her dressing- 
gown and she looked very cold. 

“Why do you lock yourself in?’’ she said; “are 
you afraid of thieves, Maisie?’’ 

Maisie smiled. 

“You are very late,’’ she said; “I was just going 
to bed.’’ 

“It is late,’’ Drusilla said coolly; “I can make up 
for it by a long night ; you won’t see me at breakfast, 
you excellent Maisie, and I’ll keep you up the short- 
est possible time. Now look here,’’ she sank into 
Maisie’s easy chair as if she were tired, “I wish to 
keep the peace, and it would vex my guardian terri- 
bly if he knew about my walk. I do not want to 
vex him just before I go away.’’ 


PLAIN^SPEAA'IiVG. 275 

Maisie lit another candle; she could hardly see 
Drusilla’s face in the dim light. 

“Why did you do it, then, if you knew it would 
vex him?” 

“Maisie I I often think you are too good to be 
real; did you never do anything you did not care 
to proclaim on the housetops?” 

“But, Drusilla, you were doing something very 
strange — it was not Mr. Stanmore you were walking 
with.” Maisie spoke very abruptly ; she could hardly 
get the words out. 

“You had best let well alone, Maisie.” Drusilla was 
loosening her hair, and she let it fall round her 
shoulders like a golden cape. “You are so innocent, 
though, that I mean to trust you. I am sure you 
will not tell tales. Besides, you would do no good 
if you did tell. When you saw me I had been simply 
ending up something which had to be ended before 
jl begin a new life.” 

Maisie drew back with a feeling of disgust. This 
jirl whom she had thought so ignorant and innocent 
had been, then, entangled with some man before she 
met Mr. Stanmore. 

[ “You saw that the person who was with me was a 
tranger?” Drusilla looked hard at Maisie, as if she 
xpected her to answer. 

“I saw that it was not Mr. Stanmore, because of 
he difference in height ; but in the shadow of the 
hedge I could not see distinctly.” 

“That’s all right.” Drusilla spoke as if she were 
relieved, “ No, he is not a friend of yours, Maisie. I 


276 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


knew him abroad in my mother’s lifetime. She — 

she ” Drusilla hesitated a minute before she went 

on : “ Well, she parted us; or perhaps I should never 
have appeared at Yardon. As it was, I forgot him, 
and I preferred Luke Stanmore ; but when this poor 
fellow found me out and asked for a chance of saying 
good-by, I don’t think even you would be so hard- 
hearted as to say I ought to have refused to see him. 
That’s all,” she said gayly; “it’s all over. Why 
should I rake it up, and make Mr. Yardon think it ever 
so much more tlian it really is? He would never be- 
lieve me again. I understand him better than you do.” 

“It seems to me,” Maisie spoke very gravely, 
“that if you shrink from telling my grandfather, you 
had better speak of this meeting to Mr. Stanmore; 
but, I beg your pardon, you have perhaps told him 
all about this — this affair.” 

Drusilla stretched herself out in the easy chair, and 
looked insolently at her companion. 

“1 do not tell Luke Stanmore everything,” she 
said slowly; “I certainly should not bore him with 
my little difficulties. I do not tell tales about 
myself, nor about you either, most wise duenna.” 

Maisie drew still farther away from her companion. 

“I do not understand you,” she said sternly. “You 
cannot tell tales about me to anyone; I have not 
any secrets.” 

She was sorry as soon as she had spoken, for she 
saw that Drusilla looked very angry. 

“What hypocrites good women are,” she said 
passionately. “I may have failings, but I don’t pre- 


PL A LV- SPEA KING. 


277 


tend to be good while all the time I am crawling after 
a man who cares nothing for me. No, I will speak, 
Maisie — IVe been silent long enough. Do you sup- 
pose your eyes have not told tales? I believe even 
to-night, when you spied after me in the field, you 
were hoping to make up a story so as to set Luke 
against me. You’d best try, that’s all; you may try 
your heart out, but you’ll do yourself more harm 
than you’ll do me.” 

She gathered her cloak round her, and snatching 
up one of Maisie’s candlesticks she hurried out of the 
room and along the dark passages. 

Maisie stood still. A tempest of shame and horror 
seemed to be whirling her off her feet. She put out her 
hands, and caught at the table near which she stood. 

She had then betrayed her secret, and this girl who 
had guessed it had proved herself to be as unfit to 
marry Luke Stanmore as Maisie, in what she had 
called a jealous mood, had thought her to be. ”Dru- 
silla is — there is no use in thinking of her,” the girl 
sternly checked herself. ”She will tell him but he 
will not blame me, and I do not think he will even 
allow her to blame me.” Hot tears fell over her 
face. Something told her that if anyone so un- 
sympathetic as Drusilla had guessed at her love she 
must have betrayed it herself in those earlier days 
with Luke Stanmore. 

She stood in the darkness thinking, thinking. It 
seemed useless to go to bed, for she knew she could 
not sleep while the wound that Drusilla had reopened 
smarted so keenly. 


278 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


Sfie shrank from the idea of daylight, and from 
seeing this girl again, but after a while she felt that 
it could not really signify what Drusilla thought of 
her, or said of her, either. 

She went to bed at last, and she slept soundly. 

Relief came to her in the morning before she had 
thoroughly wakened. 

“ If you please, miss,’' Matthews said when she had 
drawn up the blinds, “this note came very early. It 
was to have come last night, the messenger said." 

Maisie found only a few lines from Miss Savvay, 
asking her to spend the next three days at the Manor 
House. 

Miss Savvay rarely interfered with others, but when 
she did her will asserted itself strongly, and con- 
quered all opposition. She had noticed the change 
in Maisie’s looks, and she entirely disbelieved her gay 
spirits; she knew that the girl would not be missed 
at the Hall, and she determined that she should come 
to her. 

Maisie found her grandfather in singularly good 
spirits. 

“Miss Savvay wants you to take care of her in her 
nephew’s absence/’ he said, “ and she will not be 
refused, she says. You will go, won’t you, Maisie?’’ 

“Yes, if you like,’’ the girl said. It was a blessed 
escape, and she saw that her grandfather wished for 
her absence. Some weeks ago this would have 
pained her, but now it seemed only natural that he 
should wish to have Drusilla all to himself for these 
few days, 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


THE DAY BEFORE THE WEDDING. 

During the night rain had fallen heavily, and on 
the lawn below the rhododendron bushes were 
miniature encampments of purple and lilac tints. 
The golden laburnum tresses, bent down with 
moisture, looked darker and duller than they had 
looked yesterday ; so did the blossoms on one side 
of a huge lilac tree near the summer-house ; but, 
the other side, which had been basking for some 
time in the full glow of the morning sunshine, was a 
blaze of reddish flowers that seemed to open their 
calyxes ever wider and wider to the welcome warmth. 
But though the sun had been drinking thirstily 
from the grass, Drusilla found it still very wet when 
she crossed it on her way to the summer-house. 

“ It is so stupid,*' she said to herself, as her shoes 
soaked in the wet grass, ‘‘ there is no way to this 
corner without crossing the lawn.*’ 

The birds were singing everywhere; a burst of 
music greeted her as she reached the summer-house, 
but she did not pause to listen. Stooping down she 
looked under its wooden seat and found the note 
she expected, stuck in between the bench and its 
rustic support. 

Drusilla forgot her wet shoes; she sat down and 
read the note, 

279 


2iO 


MAI SI E DERRICK. 


“ How lazy these servants are,” she sighed, as she 
put the note in her pocket; ” it is almost six, and I 
don't believe anyone is stirring, unless it is my — I 
was just going to say guardian : it is so difficult to 
believe he is my father. I wonder,” she looked un- 
usually thoughtful, “if he really is my father; poor 
old thing, it is plain he thinks so.” She yawned, 
and then she laughed at herself. “I have not got up 
so early since I came to England. Oh, dear! how 
long the day will be. I was glad when Maisie went 
to Miss Savvay, but it is awfully dull without her — 
as dull as Sentis was, without the excitement I had 
there, looking out for what might happen.” 

As she walked toward the house, she found that 
her skirts were almost as wet as her shoes were ; and 
when she reached her room she decided tJiat it 
would shorten this wearisome day if she went to bed 
again and had a nap before breakfast. She slept on 
so late, that at last Mr. Yardon sent up to inquire 
for her, and to tell her that Mr. Stanmore was 
waiting to see her. 

Drusilla was breakfasting when the message came. 

“ How tiresome,” she said in French; she always 
spoke French before the servants, and this habit 
added to her unpopularity. “You can say I am 
coming, Matthews,” she said to the maid. 

Luke Stanmore was waiting for her in the hall, 
and he looked so delighted when she appeared that 
Drusilla smiled at him. 

“ I thought you were not to come to-day,” sIiq 
,said. “I felt cross when I heard you were here,” 


THE DA Y BEFORE THE WEDDIYG. 


'‘I knew I was not to come this evening, but I 
wanted particularly to see you this morning. Come 
into the garden, darling.” 

Drusilla gave a little shiver. ” It will be very damp 
after the rain, won’t it? Is it not better to go in 
instead?” 

She went into the drawing-room, and placed her- 
self before one of the open windows^ so as to com- 
mand a full view of the gardener, who moved slowly 
up and down, bending forward as he dragged the 
roller along the ground. 

“That is not a nice place. Come here, darling.” 
Stanmore sat down on a sofa on the farther side of 
the room. 

“No,” she said gravely, “this is my last day of 
freedom, and I mean to spend it as I choose. I can 
only spare you a few minutes, so it does not matter 
whether I sit or stand.” 

She had lately been so gentle and complying that 
this change of mood surprised him. He crossed the 
room and stood beside her, looking down into her 
lovely face and wondering at the happiness that lay 
before him. 

“You are right to stand in the sunshine, sweet 
one,” he said tenderly. “ I wish you could see the 
exquisite color it brings out in your hair; if I were 
an artist I should want to be painting you all day 
long, you are such an emblem of sunshine.” 

“I should like to have my portrait taken by a 
good painter,” she said thoughtfully, “but I sup- 
pose that would be expensive. Would it cost very 


2S2 


MAI SI E DERRICK. 


much, do you think?” She looked at him question- 
ingly. “I mean, of course, a real life-size picture, 
like the portraits at the Manor House.” 

He looked into her eyes, but she seemed uncon- 
scious, and he did not feel disposed to vex her by 
asking who had shown her those pictures. 

“I am afraid such a portrait as that would cost 
several hundreds,” he said ; ”but a mere likeness 
can be taken in a far less expensive way.” 

Drusilla shrugged her shoulders. 

“Unless I have the real thing, I do not care for 
make-believes; but now, what is it you want so 
especially to say? I expect Mr. Yardon is looking 
for me.” 

Mr. Stanmore seemed to have forgotten his 
especial reason for coming to see her. He was so 
happy, standing there beside her with the conscious- 
ness that to-morrow would begin the new life he so 
ardently longed for, that he did not want to talk. 
He liked to listen to her pretty French-English as 
he stood looking down at her lovely face with its 
liquid dark-fringed eyes and the red gold-hair that 
glittered in the sunshine. 

He was disturbed when Mr. Yardon came 
bustling into the room. 

“You are still here, are you, Stanmore? Well, I 
want Drusilla presently — the child has got to chose 
any especial books she wishes me to leave her in 
my will. She shall only have those she cares for; 
there’s no use in filling up a bright modern house 
with old, musty, out-of-date stuff that can all go tg 


THE DAY l^El^OkE THE WEDDING, ^ 283 

the Jiammer when Tm hammered down. You’ll 
find me in the library, dear child,” he said as he 
went away. 

“You had better go,”- Driisilla said. ”No, you 
need not take a solemn leave.” She held herself 
away as her lover bent down to kiss her when the 
gardener had passed out of sight. 

Stanmore laughed. “It ought to be extra solemn 
because I hope it is the last time we shall be parted 
for some time to come.” 

She looked gravely at him. 

“You are a good fellow, Luke, and I shall always 
respect you. I wish you were richer, though,” she 
said with a sigh, and breaking almost roughly away 
from him, she took refuge in the library. 

“She is in a strange humor,” Stamnore thought. 
“Are girls always flighty and unloving the day be- 
fore the wedding, I wonder?” 

He smiled in thinking of to-morrow. 

When he reached the bottom of the lane he found 
himself surrounded by a gaping crowd of boys and 
girls as they came thronging out of school. They 
evidently considered him a sort of hero, a foretaste 
of the sight to which they were looking forward to- 
morrow. 

Not one of the urchins had ever seen a grand 
wedding, and rumors of a white satin dress, and a 
lace veil, and various other items had excited the 
juvenile mind of Figgsmarsh, till a perennial rest- 
lessness was the outcome — especially in school 
hours. 


284 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


Mrs. Grieg, who looked tearful as she stood at 
her door, came forward and switched at the small 
crowd with her apron ; but Stanmore lauglied, and 
nodding to one of the elder children, said they 
should all have something to remember him by 
to-morrow. He hurried rather suddenly into his 
lodgings as he caught sight of Harriet Foxley 
coming toward him; he was determined not to give 
this woman a chance of venting her spite on Miss 
Lescure. 

Perhaps if he had then listened to Harriet his life 
might have been changed. He would have gone 
back to the Hall, and he would have asked Drusilla 
to clear herself from the charge of having met Mr. 
Boyd, and she might have yielded to the strength 
of his honest love. 

But Stanmore, who, except as regarded his busi- 
ness, was by no means a methodical person, had 
plenty to do in the few hours left him. He had 
been giving every evening to Drusilla, and had yet 
his papers and accounts to put straight, besides the 
arrangements he had to make for to-morrow’s 
journey. They were to go straight to London, 
spend a few days there, and then on to Paris. This 
had been Drusilla’s plan, and although Stanmore 
would have preferred to avoid cities, he thought it 
was natural that she should wish for the bustle and 
movement of London. 

It was Drusilla’s happiest thought to-day that she 
should never have to live at Figgsmarsh, or in any 
such dull place, again. She was strangely unlike 


THE DA Y nEPORE THE WEDDIHG. 


herself, fretful and impatient with Matthews,- -wlio 
was finishing the packing of her trunk so that it 
might be sent over night to the railway station, — till 
the woman was puzzled ; she began to think that 
Miss Lescure had some feeling after all, and was 
fretting at leaving the Hall. 

Maisie came home in the afternoon, but although 
Drusilla had been wishing for her return, she met 
her without a smile. 

Maisie, however, had brought with her a fresh 
stoek of spirits. She was full of the new impres- 
sions she had received at the Manor House; she 
gave Drusilla a note from Miss Savvay to excuse 
her nephew's absence from the wedding; he had 
gone to town to see his doctor, and had been advised 
to remain there a fortnight before returning to 
Figgsmarsh. 

“It is a pity, is it not?” Maisie said; “it will make 
us an odd number.” 

“Does it matter?” Drusilla said carelessly; “life 
seems so full of thwartings that nothing matters 
much, I fancy.” 

Maisie stared at her, and then she laughed. 

“Come, come,” she said brightly, “this is not fit 
talk for a bride elect what have they been doing 
to you, eh?” 

Drusilla had not seen Maisie since their quarrel, 
and she felt ashamed of meeting the girl’s eyes; this 
cheerful banter took her by surprise. 

“Maisie has not much feeling after all,” she 
thought ; “if anyone had taunted me like that I would 


28 o 


MAlSlE DERRICK, 


never have forgiven such a thing. She has no 
spirit, poor thing, and she is too good-tempered to 
feel ; she is not nearly good enough for Luke Stan- 
more.” 

At dinner-time Drusilla was in the gayest spirits; 
she teased Mr. Yardon, and made up by kissing 
him, a performance which surprised Maisie, who 
had never seen her grandfather kissed by anyone, 
and who was still ignorant of the girl’s position. 

“I believe the captain is too great a swell to 
patronize my wedding,” Drusilla said, and she gave 
so perfect an imitation of Captain Wentworth’s 
polished, blase manner that both her companions 
laughed. 

”You are a wicked little witch,” Mr. Yardon said. 
”I believe the poor chap was so hard hit that he 
has made an excuse for absence ; he cannot stand 
seeing you handed over to some one else, eh?” 

Drusilla looked pensive. 

“I like him, mind you,” she said, '‘though I take 
him off. He is a gentleman ; but a poor gentleman 
is a mistake; no use to himself or to anyone.” 
She sighed; for a few minutes she sat silent and 
frowning, but she went on amusing her companions 
this evening; she presently imitated Miss Auricula’s 
attempts at fashionable ways so exactly that Mr. 
Yardon again guffawed. Maisie smiled^ but she 
felt pained; she knew how especially kind Miss 
Auricula had been to Drusilla, and the girl’s keen 
ridicule seemed to her disloyal. 

“Well, well,” Drusilla abruptly checked her 


T^E DA Y BEi'OEE TIJE W'EDDlMC. 


mimicry, “she has taught me a good deal, poor 
woman. I should have been quiet ignorant without 
Miss Auricula’s fashionable books; but, my dear 
Maisie, even you would have laughed if you had 
heard her talk of her third cousin once removed, 
who is so welkbred and quiet in society, and nearly 
related to a duchess. When I am in society,” she 
said thoughtfully, “I shall be able to see if Miss 
Auricula is all right; she seems to me to be a 
caricature;” she sighed, and then sat silent and 
moody till Maisie rose. Mr. Yardon followed the 
girls into the drawing-room, and asked Drusilla to 
sing, but she refused. 

“I have no voice to-night,” she said ; “I am so 
tired that I had better go to bed; so had you, 
Maisie, or you will be as white as your gown to- 
morrow.” 

She just touched Maisie’s forehead with her lips, 
but the girl caught Drusilla’s hand as she passed 
her, and warmly kissed her cheek. “Can I not do 
something for you?” she said. “I’ll come with you.” 

“Oh no, please don’t. I stood over Matthews 
and worried her till she had packed the last hair- 
pin. I’m going to bed straight, thanks; there is 
nothing you could do to-night.” 

Drusilla hurried up to Mr. Yardon, put both arms 
round his neck and kissed him, and then in the 
same hurried way she left the room and closed the 
door behind her. 

Her father sat still; his eyes were fixed on the 
ground. 


288 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


“Do you think Drusilla is well?” Maisie said 

timidly ; “she seems so unlike herself ” 

“Nonsense!” His voice sounded hoarse. “She’s 
excited, that’s all. All girls who hav^e any feeling 
are strange and flighty at such a time. I’m glad to 
see the dear child cares so much about leaving 
home.” 

He walked off* to his study, and did not reappear. 
Maisie sat thinking for some time longer. She was 
uneasy; it seemed to her, that a strange change 
had passed over Drusilla during her own visit to the 
Manor House. It was impossible to think that the 
girl was happy in the prospect of her marriage. 
Her gayety had been painfully forced. 


CHAPTER XXXIL 

DRUSILI^'S WEDDING-DAY. 

Maisie had a disturbed night, full of terrible 
dreams, from which she awoke trembling with 
terror, only to fall asleep again and dream of fresh 
alarms. She awoke very early, but though she felt 
unrefreshed and heavy-hearted, she was glad to 
leave her bed, which seemed to have become a 
fertile nest of tormenting fancies. 

She was ready long before Matthews came to 
waken her, and she sat reading by her window, 
looking out now and then at the fresh loveliness of 
the garden, where all the flowering shrubs seemed 
in league to do honor to Drusilla’s wedding-day. 
And the sunshine was gilding everything; even the 
tiniest grass blade quivered with enjoyment as it 
basked in the universal brightness, while the chorus 
of birds was more musical than ever. One stout 
brown thrush on a tree close by seemed to be 
giving a singing lesson to his neighbors, he made so 
many trials before he let his voice out into a full 
tide of song. 

Maisie sat absorbed, listening to the thrush, when 
into the midst of the song came discord — a thunder- 
ing rap on her door. 

“What is it?” she said, as she crossed over to 
open it 


2g6 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


Her grandfather stood outside; he looked very 
ill ; liis face was pale, his necktie was on one side, 
and his hair stood up round his face like a stiff gray 
frame — it was plain he had not brushed it. 

“Can I come in?” He spoke roughly and harshly, 
as if he were suffering. 

Maisie opened the door to admit him. 

“What is it? You are in some trouble, vgrand- 
father?” 

He had fixed his e3^es on hers with such piercing 
scrutin}^ that for an instant hers sank under it, but 
she rallied and looked at him so firmly that his 
purpose changed. 

“Do you know anything about Drusilla? Have 
you seen her this morning?” 

“No; why do you ask?” ^ 

His sorrow had got the better of his anger, and 
Maisie’s sympathetic eyes reflected the anguish she 
saw in his face. 

“Shut your door; shut 30111' window. Now, 
Maisie, what did you mean last night? Did you 
know anything when you said she was strange?” 

There was such eager hope in his e3^es that the 
girl felt tenderly pitiful. 

“I hardly know what I meant. I felt that 
Drusilla has changed very much in these few days 
that I have been away at the Manor House; she 
seems so much older.” 

“Good Heavens!” He struck one clenched hand 
into the palm of the other. “And I saw nothing 


DRUSILLA^S IVEDDmG-DAY. 


291 


different. I have been a blind, deluded fool ; she — ■ 
she’s gone — she went away this morning.” 

Maisie could not speak. She felt as if she had 
known all this before — ^every word her grandfather 
said was expected, as if she had already heard it; 
she could only stare at him with wide open, startled 
eyes. 

“Are you out of your senses? Why don’t you 
speak?” he said angrily. “Can you give no help — 
no clue? Can you do nothing but stare?” 

“I think, grandfather,” the girl said, “that Drusilla 
must have gone away to meet some one; some one 
who has taken her away. I believe you will get 
news , of her at the railway station.” The words 
seemed to come without her will, but Mr. Yardon 
hailed them with relief. Half an hour ago Warren 
had roused him from his sleep with the news that 
Miss Lescure was missing; he was still stupefied 
with the sudden shock, but Maisie’s suggestion had 
given him something definite to do. 

“What makes you say that? Have you a reason?” 
Then he stretched out his hand to check her an- 
swer, and hurried away. 

Maisie waited anxiously for his return, and so did 
the household. Warren and the housekeeper w^ere 
mystified, and the maids were extremely discon- 
tented at the delay of the wedding, for Mr. 
Warren had said that such a bride as Miss Lescure 
would have been worth coming from London to see. 

A quantity of flowers had been brought in over 


2^2 


MAJSIE DERRICK. 


night, but Maisie ordered them to be left in the 
huge china bowls in which the gardener had placed 
them ; it seemed a mockery to make the house gay 
at such a time of trouble. The girl waited till 
about an hour before the time fixed for the wedding, 
and then she wrote a note to Mr. V^ernon, and took 
it down the hill to the Vicarage. She simply wrote 
that the marriage was unavoidably postponed, and 
she asked if Mr. Vernon would be kind enough to 
go to the Manor House and tell this fact to Miss 
Savvay. She also said that her grandfather would 
prefer to be left alone. She did this from her 
longing to be of some use, but as she came up the 
hill again she felt a little frightened lest she had 
been precipitate. Mr. Yardon might bring Drusilla 
back after all. When one o’clock came and her 
grandfather was still absent, she felt glad that she 
had acted promptly, and had thus saved so much 
vexation and expectation. She knew that Mr. 
Vernon would be discreet as well as kind, and 
would not encourage gossip. 

She had just made a hurried lunch when Mr. 
Yardon came into the dining-room. He looked 
ghastly, but he did not speak, and Maisie did not 
venture to question him. He drank off a glass of 
claret and ate a few mouthfuls of bread ; then he 
looked up at Maisie. 

‘‘Come with me,” he said. 

When he had closed the study door behind them 
he drew the heavy felt curtain across it with a 
look of keen suspicion. 


DRUSILLA'S WEDDING-DAY, 


-93 


“You were right, Maisie,” he pointed to a seat 
near him ; “there was news at the station. Miss 
Lescure traveled by the 5.45 train to Elling. I 
learned at Elling that she was joined on the plat- 
form by a gentleman, and that they were married at 
the Roman Catholic Chapel at Elling. I called on 
the priest and found that both parties, she and 
Boyd, — Boyd is the scoundrel, — satisfied him that 
they were members of his communion, and I came 
back here — that is all.” He said all this slowly, as 
if he had learned it, while he sat stiffly upright — he 
seemed to have lost all feeling. 

“I am dreadfully sorry,” Maisie said at last. 

He smiled. 

“Are you? You usually say what you mean; I 
cannot really see”what you have to be sorry about 
She was nothing to you — worse than nothing; she 
came in your way in more senses than one. Poor 
Stanmore, poor chap ; I could hardly stand the look 
on his face; Pm not sure he believes it yet. It’s a 
case of heartbreak, poor lad. Curse that rascal! 
she — it is as much as I can do to keep from cursing 
her. You don’t know the worst yet.” 

He waited a few minutes, then he said slowly, 
“She is my own child, and she knows it.” 

“Your child! Oh, grandfather’” 

She could reach his hand where she sat, and she 
pressed her lips lovingly on it. But he drew it 
away. “There, there,” he said, not unkindly, but 
with a calmness that surprised her, “you are a good 
girl, Maisie; yes, you i\rQ really a good girl, but I 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


294 

am best alone, cliild. Go away now. I leave it to 
you to make all straight with the servants.” Maisie 
longed to put her arms round the desolate old man, 
and to try and comfort him ; but he had said he 
wished to be alone, and she quietly left the room. 
She went into the library, summoned Warren, and 
told him that the wedding would not take place. 
She felt quite as bewildered by her grandfather’s 
confession as by the events of the morning, for it 
made Drusilla’s flight still more puzzling. It 
seemed impossible to Maisie that the girl could have 
preferred such a man as Mr. Boyd to Luke Stan- 
more. But Maisie’s thoughts soon went back to 
her grandfather. 

It was so cruel that he should have been deceived 
in Drusilla, especially cruel that he who had found 
it so hard to like anyone heartily, should have been 
cheated into the warm affection which he had be- 
stowed on her. Maisie tried to be merciful, but 
she felt indignant as she realized how skillfully they 
had all been tricked. “How could she leave her 
father in this way, when he loved her so?” and her 
heart went out warmly to her grandfather. 

With true love, fear for the beloved one goes 
hand in hand, and as the girl sat thinking, she felt 
an anxious dread. 

Her grandfather’s perfect calmness had surprised 
her. Suppose this sudden shock was even now 
working him serious mischief. 

She sat a few moments thinking sadly how very 
desolate he was; she did not think he hud ene 


DRUSILLA^S WED.DING DAY. 

friend to whom he could turn for comfort in this 
strait. Her intense pity warmed into renewed life 
the love she had felt for him when first she came to 
Yardon; almost unconsciously she moved quietly 
to the door which divided the library from the 
study, and stood there. She had stood there some 
minutes, when she heard a strange sound, a cry for 
help in a voice she did not recognize — then a heavy fall. 

Maisie had found her grandfather lying senseless 
on the floor, to all appearances dead ; but he had 
rallied with wonderful power, and now, at the end 
of some weeks, the doctor pronounced him to be 
almost as well as he was before his seizure. 

To-day the doctor paid a longer visit than usual, 
and when he went away he told Maisie he thought 
her patient was going to have a nap. “You should 
go for a walk. Miss Derrick,’’ he said. “I gather 
from what I hear that you have taken far too much 
off the nurse’s hands ; I shall have you for my 
next patient, if you are not careful. You need all 
your strength, for you must take your grandfather 
away as soon as you can ; he is quite able to travel, 
and he wants a change.’’ 

Maisie smiled ; she felt a longing to escape from 
Figgsmarsh and its associations, but she feared that 
her grandfather would not consent to leave home. 

There was no one to consult with. Miss Savvay 
was in town, nursing her nephew, whose stay in 
London had been protracted til} it had ended in an 
attack of low fever, 


2^6 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


Maisie had been very lonely during Mr. Yardon’s 
illness, but a new hope had come into her life. 
More than once she had met her grandfather’s eyes 
fixed on her with a look that puzzled her — it was so 
sad and yet it was not unkind; lately, too, she had 
seen with surprise that he preferred her services to 
those of the nurse. 

Maisie was so incredulous of her own powers of 
pleasing the strange old man that she scarcely 
allowed herself to believe in this hope, and yet 
every day some fresh proof rebuked her doubt. 

Till she saw her grandfather with Drusilla she 
had thought her first idea of him a mistake ; she 
had grown to think Miss Savvay’s perception was 
keener than her own when the spinster said that 
he was a hard old man who had no love to give to 
anyone. Maisie had urged against her friend’s 
opinion, Mr. Yardjon’s warm friendship for Luke 
Stanmore; but Miss Savvay had promptly answered 
that he might like men, but he could have no liking 
for women, or he would and must love Maisie. 

When the girl came in from her walk, Warren 
met her in the hall ; he said his master wished to 
see Miss Derrick in the library. Mr. Yardon was 
sitting wdth his back to the wdndow^s. Maisie 
thought he looked strangely grave, but his face 
softened as she came up to him. 

'’The doctor has been frightening me about you, 
my girl,” he said. “You do not look so pale, either; 
I suppose your walk has given you a color. 
Should you like to pack up your traps and start off 


DRUSILLA^S WEDDING-DAY, 297 

for Switzerland with such an old fellow-traveler as I 
am, eh, Maisie?” The sparkle in her eyes and her 
deepened color answered him. 

“I should like it ever so much,” she said; “but 
are you sure you wish to travel, grandfather?” 

He put out his hands for hers, but the look in his 
eyes was enough for Maisie. 

She bent down, and putting her arms around him, 
she kissed him. 

He held her down for an instant, and then he 
whispered : 

“You have much to forgive, child, and I have 
much to make up for* but, please God, I’ll do it 
yet.” 


CHAPTER XXXIIL 

IN A SWISS VILLAGE. 

The Hall had been shut up for a year. The 
servants still remained there, for Mr. Yardon’s 
absence had been indefinitely prolonged. It was 
supposed that he might come home any day, with 
scanty notice for preparation. 

The Manor House was again deserted; Captain 
Wentworth was abroad for his health. Miss 
Auricula Vernon and the Figgsmarsh gossips found 
themselves therefore starved for want of amuse- 
ment. The vicar was dull and out of spirits; life 
had lost much of its flavor for him with the absence 
of Miss Derrick. 

In the village itself there had been changes. Mr. 
Stanmore had gone away the day after Drusilla’s 
disappearance, and he had not come back. 

Harriet Foxley had become more and more crazy, 
till at last' she flung a saucepan at her brother 
George, whereupon George took the law into his 
own hands and procured her admission to the 
imbecile ward of the county asylum. Old Foxley 
had yielded to his son’s stronger will, but he greatly 
regretted his daughter and her cookery. 

Mrs. Grieg, therefore, as behooved a kind neighbor, 
tried her best to comfort the bereaved father, and 
he had found her attentions so indispensable that 

998 


lA^ A SIV/SS VILLAGE, 


^99 

on this sunny, fine day she had been for some time 
settled in her new home as Mrs. Foxley. She had 
contrived to conciliate her stepson, who found 
home a far pleasanter place since his crazy sister 
had left it ; and although, now that the first polite- 
ness had worn off, the old blacksmith sometimes 
told his wife to “shut up“ in the midst of her 
gossip, there was more peace and comfort in the 
Foxley home than there had been under Harriet’s 
rule. 

“Did you hear any news at the house, father?” 
Mrs. Foxley asked. “Any chance of the squire 
coming back, or of Miss Derrick getting married?” 

She was sitting at the table darning, with a heap 
of stockings before her. 

“No, wife, I didn’t.” The old man went on 
smoking his long clay pipe as he sat at his door 
basking in the sunshine. 

“I say, Foxley, George ain’t here, so nobody 
needn’t say it’s gossip when we’re only werselves; 
but doesn’t it seem to you it would be a likely 
thing for Mr. Stanmore to take up with Miss 
Derrick again? He was sweet on her, Fm witness 
to that, before that French woman, as poor Harriet 
used to call her, stepped into her shoes — what do 
you say?” 

“You’ve asked me that fifty times already, Mrs. 
Foxley, and you’ve had my answer. If it’s to be it 
will be, and if it ain’t it won’t, an’ no words o’ 
yoLirn will make it be, so you only waste breath.” 

He looked straight before him into the road, 


300 


MAISIE derrick. 


while his wife, safely sheltered by his broad back as 
she sat behind his chair, shrugged her shoulders, 
and then nodded with a little sniggering laugh over 
the heap of stockings. 

“Poor, dear Mr. I^oxley,” she thought, “he’s 
clever and learned about politics, and horses’ hoofs, 
and the ministers, and such-like; but, dear me, 
what could he know about a love affair; he who 
never found out what was known to every one, that 
his poor daughter Harriet was mad with love for 
Mr. Stanmore; why, she’d have disgraced them all 
but for George’s good sense, that she would.’’ 

Mrs. Fox ley was grateful, and never forgot the 
debt which, as Mrs Grieg, she owed to her stepson. 

Foxley sat smoking in silence. 

“Yes, wife,’’ he said at last, “I did hear some- 
thing.” 

“Did you now?” — in her eager delight she jumped 
up, and coming forward, stocking in hand, she stood 
and darned beside her husband’s chair — “Yes, dear?” 
for he went on smoking. 

“Yes, Mrs. Foxley, I did hear something.” He 
liked to call his wife by her new name ; he was 
proud that at past sixty-five, with the gout in both 
feet, he had prevailed on so very genteel a person 
as Mrs. Grieg to accept him. “Quite the lady, my 
boy,” he often said to his son George; “there’s a 
style in everything she puts her hand to.” 

“Well, dear, go on,” she spoke affectionately, but 
she wished he would lay down his pipe and tell his 
story out. 


IN A SPV/SS village. 


“There's been a letter, I understand, what has 
come a week or more ago from one or other of 
these foreign places, directed to Mr. Yardon, and 
Mr. Warren he says, to the best of his belief, that 
there letter was from Miss Lescure, — Mrs. Boyd as 
they call her, — an’ he’s sent it at once a-traveling 
after Mr. Yardon.” 

“Dear me,” Mrs. Foxley felt excited, “and there 
are those that say the poor old gentleman went off 
in search of her because he could not live without 
her. It’s plain as my darning-needle he’s not come 
up with her, or that letter wouldn’t have come to 
Yardon. I’m sure I hope he never will come up 
with her. Miss Derrick’s worth a dozen of her — 
she’s a lady. T’other one’s a yellow-haired witch, 
that’s what I call her.” 

“Shut up, Mrs. Foxley, we can’t have any calling 
of names; the lady was pretty enough to please 
anyone, and ’tis no wonder the old man’s fancy was 
caught ; all the men were in the same cry, for that 
matter.” 

On that sunny June afternoon ‘'the old man,” as 
Foxley called him, was resting half-way up the green 
side of a mountain. Maisie strayed about on the 
flowery turf, half wild with delight at the abundance 
and variety of the blossoms that carpeted the slope. 

At their feet some way below lay a picturesque 
village of cottages, with tiny gardens full of trees 
and flowers. These cottages straggled along a 
narrow terrace on the hill-side, which on the left 
broadened out into a projecting spur, on which the 


30:! 


MAlSlE DLKRlCk\ 


tall, black, sharply pointed steeple of the little white 
church made a landmark from the valley hundreds 
of feet below. Along this valley rushed a river, 
sometimes fairly broad, but more often choked 
with stones, against which the water dashed and 
foamed, yet made no way for its passage— it had to 
leap over the stone barrier, that had perhaps fallen 
across it since the mountains had yawned this 
tremendous ravine. 

There were many lateral openings on the farther 
side, and at the end of one of these a glacier lay 
glittering in the sunshine, tinged just now with rosy 
light; the nearer mountains showed green alps and 
brown cattle-shelters among the pine woods, but 
farther off mountains had gray rocky sides, green 
at the base, with snowy summits. 

Mr. Yardon was never tired of gazing at the 
scene. He looked stronger and much younger than 
when he left England. He had for some months 
gone back to his old wandqring habits and had 
shown Maisie many very interesting cities and 
countries. The girl had often dreamed about these 
places while she read about them, but she had never 
expected to see them. She found Mr. Yardon an 
experienced guide, and he was pleased to discover 
how well-informed his young companion was, and 
how many associations her reading had given her 
with the places they visited. 

He was thinking about this to-day as he sat on 
the sun-dried hill slope. He had received Drusilla’s 
letter; he smiled grimly as he thought how different 


LV A SWISS VILLAGE. 


3^3 

a companion he should have found her. Perhaps of 
all Maisie’s qualities the one that endeared her most 
to her grandfather was her cheerful acceptance of 
the little troubles and disappointments that are apt 
to beset travelers; more than once when his own 
temper had become crooked from a delayed dinner 
or an inability to find rooms, or when an unlucky 
trunk had gone astray, Maisie’s bright smile and 
cheerful words, and above all her ready helpfulness, 
had set all straight. Her grandfather told her she 
was courier and companion united. 

She came up to him now with her hands full of 
delicate white flowers. 

“Maisie,” he said, ‘‘I want to talk to you; come 
and sit down; bless you, child, those weeds are not 
worth the store you set by them.” 

“Wait a bit,” Maisie laughed happily, ‘'just wait 
till I have time to put them in water and you’ll see 
how bright that desolate little sitting-room will look ; 
you won’t recognize it.” 

“Maisie,” her grandfather said abruptly, “how 
should you like Drusilla to come home and live at 
Yardon again?” 

The light faded out of Maisie’s face, her shy, 
shrinking manner came back; she looked a limp 
contrast to the happy girl of a few moments ago, as 
she sat bending forward, her eyes fixed on the turf. 

Drusilla’s name had scarcely been mentioned since 
they left England, and Maisie believed the girl had 
not written to her father. She felt crushed by 
his proposal; and then her honest nature, which 


3^4 


A/A/S/B DEkklCK. 


had become more outspoken during these months 
of freedom, asserted itself. 

'‘I should not like it,” she said; “I could not be 
happy with her, because I could not trust her.” 

He gave her a sly, humorous look. 

''To think how hard a good woman can be! 
Well, well!” he sighed. "The poor thing is in the 
same plight ; she says she can’t trust her husband ; 
he quarrels with her for being extravagant, and she 
says he spends too much on his own self-indulgence. 
She says she’s very unhappy. There, you can read, 
and see what you make of it. It’s a sad business. 
I fancy the fellow drinks.” 

Maisie’s lip curled as she read Drusilla’s petting, 
caressing words. Mrs. Boyd said she had long ago 
repented that she had chosen for herself instead of 
relying on her dearest father’s unerring judgment. 
More than one page was filled with vehement com- 
plaints of her husband’s ill-treatment and his stingi- 
ness. She said she had his permission to come to 
England and stay with her father, and that she 
longed to see Yardon and his kind, dear face again. 
She longed, too, to take her place as the daughter 
he had so lovingly taken to his heart. Except for 
the abuse of her husband, Maisie could not find 
fault with Drusilla’s letter; and yet to her it did not 
seem true ; it gave her the impression that if Mr. 
Boyd had continued to behave well to his wife she 
would not have written to her father. There was 
no expression of contrition for the pain she had 


IM A SWISS VILLAGE, 


3^5 

given ; she only repented because her choice had 
not proved a success. 

Maisie sat dumbly holding the letter when she 
had finished reading it. 

‘"Well,” he said, in the mocking tone she had not 
heard for so long, “what is your verdict, Maisie? 
Shall we go home to receive the prodigal, and kill 
the fatted calf?” 

She looked up at him gravely ; she could not 
understand how he could joke about what seemed 
to her so very serious. 

“Did you get this letter to-day, grandfather?” 

“No, it came two days ago. I wanted to think it 
over quietly; it took me some time to digest.” 

Then his manner changed, and he turned to Maisie 
with the deep, loving look in his eyes which she had 
never met there until his recovery a year ago. 

“My dear, I have decided. I have already written 
to Mrs. Boyd, and I have given her the best advice 
I can. I have told her that at present, at any rate, 
I do not wish to see her. Who knows,” he said, 
with a faint smile, “Drusilla is such a fascinating 
little witch, I might be simpleton enough to let her 
deceive me once more.” 

He saw wonder in Maisie’s eyes, and put his hand 
on her shoulder. 

“You can’t understand it, child. I don’t fancy 
that it affects women so much, but fascination is 
about the most dangerous power anyone can 
possses; and when such a girl as Drusilla has it, it’s 


30 ^ M4ISIE DERRICK, 

hard to stand firm against, even against proved 
deceit. In man, and in woman, too, it is a gift that 
seldom goes with higher gifts; unluckily, no one 
remembers that in time. One follows on, as the 
children in the Hamelin legend followed the weird 
music of the Rattenfanger’s fife ; one begins to 
dance, and the irresistible music leads one on ; one’s 
own will is for the time bewitched.” 

'‘Yes.” Maisie spoke thoughtfully. She was 
wondering whether this potent gift could ever lose 
its power, and whether, if Drusilla appeared in 
person, she would not easily reconquer, not 
only her father’s affection, but also that of Luke 
Stanmore. 

She felt grateful to Mr. Yardon for his decision, 
but she knew that it was for his own sake, as well as 
hers, that he refused to receive Drusilla. 

Mr. Yardon had made a fresh will before he left 
England. The bulk of his property was left to 
Maisie, but he had settled a small yearly allowance 
on his daughter, so that in the event of her being 
left unprovided for she need not want. He still 
believed Drusilla would come right in the end, but 
he felt a stern satisfaction in punishing her for her 
deceit. He had told her of this provision in his 
letter. He wished to prevent her from cherishing 
undue expectations, and he also felt that it would 
be a test of her sincerity. 

Maisie, silently picking the flowers, wondered 
what would have happened if Drusilla had made 
her appeal in person ; and then she thought of Luke 


IN A SWISS VILLAGE. 307 

Stanmore. If he were to meet Drusilla, and she 
once more tried to fascinate him, would he be able 
to resist her? 

Mr. Yardon was also silent; he was planning how 
to escape a meeting with his daughter. He felt 
sure Drusilla would try to join him, and he de- 
termined to leave this charming valley, where he 
had been so happy, and to communicate his future 
route only to his lawyer, Mr. Ray. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

“have I COME TOO LATE?” 

Two days later a tall Englishman left the train at 
Lanquart and set off to walk up to the little Alpine 
village, although the steep three miles’ climb was in 
the full blaze of sunshine. 

The traveler’s brown skin showed that he was ac- 
customed to a much warmer climate, and he climbed 
the road as briskly as if the sun were not at its 
prime of heat and light. 

Once or twice he stood still, and turned to look 
down the steep descent into the valley. Then, see- 
ing that on his right hand the mountain rose up like 
a green wall beside him as the road climbed it in 
zigzag, he halted, and took a long breath before he 
went on again. 

At last, as he turned an angle of the road, he 
looked up and saw the long white hotel rising out 
of the dark shrubs and trees of its garden, backed 
by the green mountain which went up still another 
thousand feet or so above. 

Just then the garden gate opened, and Mr. Stan- 
more’s eyes glistened as he saw his old friend 
come out and take the road leading down toward 
him. 

“It will be a surprise to him,” Stanmore thought. 
He had called on Mr. Ray, and had learned where 


“ //A VE / COME TOO LA TE ? 


309 


to find Mr. Yardon. He had not written to an- 
nounce himself. 

He soon saw that he was observed. Mr. Yardon 
stopped, shaded his eyes with his hand, then he put 
on his glasses, and having taken a good look through 
them he came forward at a quickened pace. 

“This is unexpected; I’m delighted He shook 
Stanmore’s hand as if he never meant to let it go. 
“Where do you hail from, eh?” 

“From London. I only left it yesterday. I 
wanted so much to see you again.” 

“You have not spent much time in London; your 
skin tells me that.” Mr. Yardon had been noting 
his friend’s sun-bronzed face. 

“No; I have been a year in Spain, railroad mak- 
ing. I went there soon after I left Figgsmarsh, and 
was glad to get the appointment. Is Miss Derrick 
with you?” 

“Yes.” Mr. Yardon gave an uneasy smile. “Oh, 
yes ; she’s up the village sketching. I hope you 
found this Spanish affair profitable.” 

“Yes; it has opened the way for a still better 
appointment. I feel,” Stanmore smiled happily in 
the elder man’s face, “that my foot is firm on the 
ladder now. It must be my own fault if I don’t go 
up it.” 

“Bravo! that’s all right.” Mr. Yardon shook 
his hand heartily. 

“Shall we go and find Miss Derrick?” Stanmore 
did not say this in the same firm, cheery tone, He 
looked questioningly at Mr, Yardon. 




MAIS/E DERRICK, 


“Yes; we’ll go up and find her. Why not? Are 
you come to stay, Stanmore?” 

'‘That depends; I hope so.” 

The older man eyed him keenly. He cleared his 
throat to speak, and then checked himself. He had 
almost said, “You were always impetuous, my 
friend ; do not be in too great a hurry now.” 

They walked on in silence till they came to a 
point where, still on a lower level than the hotel, the 
road forked, and led on the right round the long 
white building to the spur which held the little 
black-spired church suspended, as it were, above the 
valley, while the road on the left took its way along 
the village street to the Rath-haus, which showed 
long straggling lines of chalets which seemed to 
cling to the green hillside. 

“You will find Maisie in that direction,” Mr. 
Yardon said. “I will go on to the inn and order 
your room before the diligence comes in with fresh 
arrivals.” 

Stanmore thought his old friend spoke sadly as 
he turned away toward the hotel. 

He was right. Mr. Yardon walked on slowly 
with his head sunk on his chest. He had been glad 
to see his friend, but now he felt angry as well as 
unhappy. 

Just v/hen he and Maisie had learned to love one 
another, and when he seemed day by day to find 
out whai- a treasure of pleasant companionship he 
had denied himself in those years when he had 
resolutely closed his heart against his grand- 


HAVE I COME TOO LA TE V' 3 1 1 

daughter — he was to lose her. He knew by a sort 
of instinct that Stanmore had come for Maisie — not 
to see him. 

The young fellow’s silence all this while had not 
surprised him. Mr. Yardon had felt disgraced by 
Drusilla’s conduct, and it had been a relief to him 
when Stanmore left Figgsmarsh without saying 
good-by to anyone. 

He smiled bitterly as he remembered Drusilla’s 
letter. It seemed to him that she would follow it 
and seek to find him out. 

‘‘Will it come to that?” he thought; then, 
shrugging his shoulders, “I suppose so. Stanmore 
will take Maisie away from me, and I shall have to 
go home with Drusilla and have to submit myself 
to her whims and caprices for the sake of a quiet 
life. Serves me right, Miss Savvay will say. I 
shall never forget the lecture she wrote me before 
we left England. She’ll have no pity on me now, 
and I dare say she is right. I have made my bed, 
and I’ve got to lie on it.” 

He gave a grim smile and proceeded to secure the 
best room that was vacant for Luke Stanmore. 

Meantime, Stanmore strolled upward till he 
reached the first line of chalets. Rows of straw 
beehives showed in the gardens of these chalets, 
and in front of the hives were flaming poppies and 
yellow nasturtiums, and the ever-present carnation, 
with a background of huge blue-green cabbages, 
and here and there a plot of golden maize and tall 
}iemp. There were three rows pf these straggling 


312 


MAI SIR DERRICK. 


cottages, and in the third was a chalet that especially 
attracted Stanmore's notice. The balcony under 
the broad eaves was bright with pot flowers, and 
there was a profusion of fuchsias and carnations on 
the rude wooden shelves below each window. 

Maisie was standing opposite this cottage as if 
she were considering it, but her sketch-book lay on 
the block of wood behind her. 

“Miss Derrick,” Stanmorc said; and she turned 
and saw him. 

She looked very bright, ever so much younger, he 
thought, than when he had last seen her; her dark 
eyes glowed with pleasure when she saw him. 

“Have you met my grandfather?” she said, as 
they shook hands. 

“Yes; I met him on the slope, and he told me 
where to find you.” 

“Is not this a picturesque Swiss village? If you 
like to come a little higher I will show you an ex- 
quisite view into the valley beyond us, but there are 
beautiful bits on every side, especially if you climb.” 

“Do you climb alone?” he said laughing. Her 
animation relieved his embarrassment, and he felt 
already the exhilaration of the fresh mountain air. 

“I am seldom alone,” she said, with a happy 
assured look that Stanmore had rarely seen on hiCr 
truthful face. “My grandfather and I take our 
walks together. He has been teaching me how to 
climb since we came here, but he says these 
mountains are very easy and insignificant ; I ?upposo 
they will not satisfy you,” 


“ HA VE I COME TOO LA TE ? ” 313 

He looked into her eyes. 

“1 am come here to rest.” He paused. She 
met his look so frankly that he felt checked, and 
he remembered he had resolved to be cautious. 
'‘Where is this view? I should like to see it, if you 
are not tired.” 

“I am never tired here — and — and ” Maisie 

hesitated, and yet it seemed to be only just to- 
ward her grandfather to let Mr. Stanmore know 
how kind he was; “I am so happy. I find my 
grandfather such a delightful companion ; he has 
traveled so much that he knows something about 
every place we visit.” 

Stanmore felt suddenly irritable; it seemed to 
him that Mr. Yardon must be a bore with his 
guide-book information. Every moment as he 
walked beside her his feelings strove to overmaster 
his prudence. They had come back months ago, 
and had gained strength from repression ; and till 
he saw her to-day, he had felt fairly confident of 
success. But now fear was stronger than hope. 

This bright, handsome, laughing girl was not the 
shrinking, shy Maisie he had known at Yardon. 

As he followed her across a long series of flowery 
meadows to a plank bridge over the brook, a new 
idea came to him ; it was so long since they parted, 
much might have happened in that interval; it was 
possible that she was no longer free. She looked 
so handsome, so distinguished, that she must have 
found admirers. 

“This way,” said Maisie cheerily, as she hurried 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


3M 

on into the thick fir wood they had been making 
for. 

It was rather perilous walking in this wood; the 
path went along the very edge of a steep ravine, 
and the ground was so slippery and broken that 
Maisie caught every now and then at one of the 
slender fir trunks on the right. Even Stanmore 
was obliged to walk carefully lest he should lose his 
foothold, and the trees grew so near the narrow 
path that he could not help Maisie as she walked 
on in front. 

They came out at last on a projecting spur that 
bulged forward into the ravine ; there was a small 
clearing here among the pines, and Stanmore ex- 
claimed at the beauty of the view. The Rhine 
valley, hemmed with tiny villages, lay at his feet, 
while a succession of pale pearl-tinted mountains 
rose above the dark ridge that walled in the valley, 
till they seemed to melt in the sky-line. Just below 
the point on which they stood a torrent leaped down 
the face of the rock into the sunshine; it halted 
half-way to take breath, and seemed to take also 
an increase of color as the sunbeams touched its 
spray. 

“This is delightful !” 

Stanmore flung himself down on the brown carpet 
of pine needles. Maisie had already seated herself 
on a huge moss-grown stone. 

Stanmore felt a sense of heavenly rest and 
happiness as he looked at his companion. Her eyes 
'were fixed on the far-off mountains, and he could 


“ //A VE / COME TOO LA TE r' 315 

gaze his fill on her noble, trusting face; he thought 
she looked so sweet and true, so free from vain and 
petty thoughts. He had discovered long ago that 
he had deserted the true woman for the lovely false- 
hood who had deceived him, but he had never so 
fully realized this as he now did sitting at Maisie’s 
feet. 

He had resolved months ago to seek her as soon 
as he reached England. He had made wise resolu- 
tions; he told himself that Maisie would not at once 
forgive him, but he trusted more to personal plead- 
ing than to a letter, and he had not, therefore, 
announced his coming — he meant to be very 
humble, and above all very patient, and little by 
little he hoped to win back the love which he 
believed she had once felt for him. Now the first 
sight of her had put all these wise intentions to 
flight; he felt timid instead of hopeful, but also des- 
perately impatient to learn his fate. 

All unconsciously, Maisie’s next words increased 
this impatience beyond his power of controlling it. 

“ We go on, perhaps to-morrow, to the Engadine,’' 
she said, “to meet some friends who were with us 
in Rome last winter.” 

Stanmore raised himself on his elbow and looked 
intently at her upturned face. Her eyes were still 
fixed on the mountains, and she was smiling, as if 
at some happy memory. 

“There is room on your stone for half-a-dozen 
people,” he said abruptly; “may I come and sit 
there?” 


3t6 


M AISIE DERRICIk, 


Maisie smiled as he placed himself beside her. 
He wished she would look a little shy, less sisterly; 
he felt irritated by her perfect composure. 

‘M should have been more in my place down 
there.” He looked at the pine needles. “Maisie, I 
want to be forgiven ; I have come here to tell you so.” 

‘ ' Forgiven — you ?” 

She was looking troubled at last, and he felt 
suddenly hopeful. 

“I mean that I had learned, soon after I came to 
Yardon, that only you could make me happy, and 
yet I was infatuated -enough, foolish enough ” 

‘‘Please stop,” Maisie said; “it was a grief to us 
all that you were deceived, but I do not see how 
you could help it — every one was deceived.” 

‘‘It is like your sweetness to say that, but a man 
ought not to be a child, led away by a mere fancy. 
I do not deserve forgiveness and yet I ask for it.” 

Maisie was silent. Her grandfather’s words as 
they sat together on the hill kept repeating them- 
selves; if Mr. Stanmore were to meet Drusilla, how 
could she dare to hope that his love for herself would 
not once more yield to this powerful fascination ; she 
thought, too, Drusilla could never have loved her 
husband as well as she loved Stanmore. 

‘‘Will you forgive me?” he said tenderly. 

She tried to look at him calmly. 

‘‘Indeed I have nothing to forgive; I have always 
felt that you were my friend. We never quarreled, 
you know;” she smiled, and rose from her mossy 
seat. ‘‘Shall we go and find my grandfather?” 


^‘HAVE T COME TOO LATE? 


Ml 


Me took her hand to detain her ; she saw the master- 
ful look in his eyes she so well remembered, but his 
eyes did not thrill her now as they had done all 
those months ago. 

“No, I cannot let you go till I know my fate; 
I do not believe in your forgiveness while you 
remain so cold. Will you not believe I love you, 
Maisie?” 

She drew her hand away. 

Me heard the trouble in her voice; it trembled 
with agitation. 

“I cannot — it is not my fault, but I cannot.” 

She turned from him and went along the slippery 
path. Stanmore was obliged to follow her in silence 
till they came to the plank bridge; he went on first 
here, and held out his hand to guide her over, but 
Maisie only touched it lightly with her fingers. 

He stood before her when she reached the meadow 
so that she could not pass him. 

“You will give me another answer,” he said pas- 
sionately, clasping her hand between his. “Maisie, 
you cannot be so unforgiving.” 

“It is not a question of forgiveness;” she trem- 
bled very much, but she frankly raised her eyes to 
his. “I say ‘no’ for your happiness as well as mine. 
I should not make you happy if I did not believe 
in your love; besides,” she smiled brightly as she 
again drew her hand from his grasp, “you forget my 
grandfather. So long as he wishes it he must be 
my chief care in life; I love him very dearly, and 
he knows it.” 


MAJS//' DEkRlCK, 


31^ 

Stanmore stood still, barring her way, with wistful, 
hungry eyes. 

“That is no reason at all ; we could both care for 
him, if you would have it so. Why should you be 
so full of love and mercy for him, and yet have 
none for me? Tell me how I can make you believe 
that you only can make me happy?” 

She turned her head away ; he thought she was 
weary of his pleading. 

“Have 1 come too late?” he cried. “Oh, Maisie, 
tell me; you might spare me my useless hope; 
well, I deserve this.” 

He stood aside to let her pass, but she turned to 
him ; her eyes were full of tender pity. 

“It is not as you think,” she said; “I find it hard 
to explain myself, but I must make you understand 
this : I know that I could not make you happy unless 
I could fully trust your love, and if you were un- 
happy,” she paused, “well, I should be unhappy 
too.” 

She smiled at him, and Stanmore understood ; it 
was plain to him that Maisie still feared Drusilla’s 
power to revive his feelings. 

They walked on side by side in silence ; he thought 
if he could only have patience he might win her, 
but it was terrible to have to wait. 

As they walked on he told himself that deter- 
mination must conquer; time and his own constancy 
must convince Maisie of the truth of his love. All 
at once she ran forward, and he saw Mr. Yardon 
waiting for them at the gate of the farthest field. 


I^A 1 7 ' J COM I' Too LA TE ? 


Mr. Yardon looked at the girl’s earnest, loving 
eyes, and then his glance anxiously traveled on to 
her companion. 

Stanmore’s face told him what had been said be- 
tween them; he drew his granddaughter’s hand 
under his arm, and tenderly pressed it. 

“My friend Luke is a simpleton,’’ he said to him- 
self; “so much the better for me; the foolish fellow 
should have waited.’’ 


o 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. 

There was a little shop at the corner of the vil- 
lage street, and Maisie went into it, telling her com- 
panions she would follow them. 

‘T will get you to say my good-by to Miss Derrick.” 
Stanmore spoke so abruptly that his companion 
stared at him as he went on. “Yes, for the present, 
old friend, I have ruined all my hopes by my con- 
founded impatience; but I do not give up. I must 
go; you will not see me till I am more master of my- 
self than I am just now.” 

Mr. Yardon looked at him curiously. “Did my 
granddaughter give you any hope ?” 

“No, not in words ; but she said she was free. That 
is, she implied it ; and she said it as if she meant me 
to understand that though she will not listen to me 
now, she has not listened to anyone else. She will 
not trust me,” he said bitterly; “that’s it.” 

They had reached the door of the inn ; Stanmore 
looked back, and he saw that Maisie was following 
them slowly. 

“Good-by,” he said hurriedly. “The kindest 
thing you can do is to let me go.” 

Mr. Yardon led the way through the house into 
the garden, which ran along the front and com- 
manded a view of the valley. 


320 


AJ\r UNEXPECTED VISITOR. 321 

^‘Stay a minute,” he said, “we shall not be fol- 
lowed, and I will start you on your way. Now, 
look here, Stanmore he stood still when they 
were outside the gate; “you must not be hard on 
Alaisie; are you sure that you are free?” 

Stanmore reddened. “Do you really think I 
should have dared to offer myself to such a girl as 
Maisie if I had not learned that I cannot be happy 
without her? You must have seen, you could not 
help knowing, that I loved her almost as soon as I 
saw her.” 

'‘Yes, I knew.” Air. Yardon’s voice sounded 
husky as he made this admission. “And I was blind 
enough to think you a fool; but, my good fellow, 
that only makes your position worse. If a man is 
changeable once ” 

“No, I cannot agree with you.” Stanmore spoke so 
very earnestly that Air. Yardon was greatly impressed. 
“ I have never reall}^ loved anyone but Alaisie; but 
till to-day I did not know how I loved her, or how 
little I deserve to win her. I behaved like a foolish 
boy at Figgsmarsh, and I had a lesson which has, I 
fancy, helped to make a man of me.” His voice 
suddenly faltered. “Let me go,” he said. “Good- 

by-’’ 

Air. Yardon stood watching him ; he wished he had 
told him their probable route. Then he remembered 
Stanmore could always apply to Air. Ray. He 
turned sadly into the house. His talk with Stanmore 
had recalled what is always the most odious of mem- 
ories, the conviction that by our own self-will we have 


3 - 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


wrecked the happiness of others. It seemed to Mr. 
Yardon that if he had let Stanmore and Maisie man- 
age their own affairs, they might now be happily 
married. “Well, well,” he thought, as he went up 
to his room, “who can say? He was a boy in those 
days, and who knows whether that lovely young 
witch might not have fascinated him after marriage? 
I have heard of such disasters, and Maisie is not 
the sort of woman who would have got over such 
a desertion. Poor soul ! it might have killed her!” 

He had reached his room, and he went to his win- 
dow to see if Stanmore was still visible. Yes, there 
he was, standing still just at the point where the 
sudden turn of the road would in a few minutes com- 
pletely hide him from observation. He was speaking 
to a tall woman, dressed in black, and Mr. Yardon 
saw that a carriage was slowly coming rfeund the 
angle of the zigzag road. Mr. Yardon was fond of 
studying the scenery through an opera-glass, and he 
now leveled this at Stanmore’s companion. 

“Good Heavens!” he muttered, “it is that un- 
happy girl.” 

He saw Drusilla raise her head as if she were 
asking some favor of her companion, and then, as 
Stanmore drew away from her, he saw her stretch out 
her hand to put it on the young fellow’s arm, but 
Stanmore stepped back, and then bowed to her and 
continued his journey. 

Drusilla stood looking after him, but he did not 
once turn round. Her father smiled sadly as he 
watched her toss her head in the old petulant way, 


JJV UNEXPECTED VISITOR. 323 

and then, when Stanmore was out of sight, she got 
into the carriage, which had halted beside her. Mr. 
Yardon stood for some minutes, frowning, while he 
reflected. 

“It is a good thing not to be taken by surprise,’' 
he said at last, but he looked rather sad than frowning ; 
“I must warn Maisie.” 

He knocked at the door of communication between 
their rooms, and Maisie said, “Come in.” 

She was standing at the window, and her face 
warned her grandfather that she too had seen the 
meeting between Stanmore and Drusilla. 

“You must see her; she will be here directly,” 
Maisie said abruptly. 

Her grandfather looked hard at her. 

“Sit down, my dear, Mrs. Boyd will not be here 
for ten minutes at least; if I know anything about 
her Swiss drivers, she will come slowly up that hill,” 
he said cynically. “I have a selfish motive in asking 
you to keep quiet, Maisie; you have had unexciting 
morning, and you ought to rest an hour or two ; but 
instead of that I want you to do me a service — I 
want you to receive Mrs. Boyd.” 

Maisie looked wistfully at him ; he did not seem 
angry, she thought, but he looked extremely decided. 

“I will go down and meet her, and bring her to 
you in the sitting-room, shall I? And shall I say 
downstairs that we want another bedroom for to- 
night?” 

“No; I ask you to see Drusilla, because I have 
dt.'cided not to do so; if she choose to stay here, we 


324 


MAISIE DERRICK, 


will drive over to Klosters; we were to leave to- 
morrow, you know/’ Then, as he saw the protest 
in her eyes, he said severely, “Do not interfere, 
child, or I shall be angry ; you can say to Drusilla 
that I will see her some day, but I must choose my 
own time, and it will not be yet awhile. What she 
has to say to me is best said through Mr. Ray.” 

Maisie wondered, as she looked after her grand- 
father, whether he was afraid of Drusilla’s influence. 
She went to the window; the carriage was now so 
near that she had no time to lose. She felt timid at 
meeting Drusilla, but she resolved to help her if she 
could onh/ find the way; the discouraging sense of 
being wholly misunderstood, which always seemed to 
paralyze Maisie, was fast gaining on her at the thought 
of this meeting. There was not a salon in the prim- 
itive little hotel, and Maisie dared not take Drusilla 
to their own sitting-room, which adjoined her grand- 
father’s bedroom. She resolved to take her into the 
garden. 

She stood in the flagged, low-arched entrance pas- 
sage and anxiously watched Drusilla’s arrival. 

Maisie thought that Mrs. Boyd looked more beauti- 
ful even than Drusilla Lescure; but as the visitor 
moved forward, the girl saw that she had coars- 
ened — she was stouter, and she had more color, 
and when she spoke to the landlord, whose manner 
was obsequious to so distinguished-looking a guest, 
Maisie was surprised by the haughtiness of Mrs. 
Boyd’s manner. 

She went forward and held out her hand ; she was 


AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. 325 

ready to kiss Drusilla, but she saw a repressive ex- 
pression on the lovely face. 

“Where is my father?” Mrs. Boyd spoke impe- 
riously; at that moment she hated Maisie, and she 
believed that the girl was capable of keeping her 
away from her father. 

“Will you come with me?” Maisie knew that the 
landlord understood English, and she saw that he 
lookedinquisitive when Mrs. Boyd asked for her father. 

She led the way through the house to the garden, 
and Drusilla followed her. 

She looked around when they reached the garden, 
and then she turned haughtily to Maisie. 

“Why do you bring me here, Maisie Derrick? I 
did not come all this way to see you. I want my 
father; where is he? I know he will not refuse to 
see me when he knows how I long for a meeting. I 
must see him.” 

Drusilla raised her voice as if she thought Mr. 
Yardon was in hiding among the trees. 

“Let us sit down,” said Maisie. Her supreme 
pity gave her courage ; it seemed to her that her mes- 
sage must inflict great pain on Drusilla. Drusilla 
placed herself on the shaded bench before which 
they had stopped, and stared up at the windows of 
the hotel. 

“I will rest here while you go and fetch my father; 
I am determined to see him. Go and tell him so.” 

She fixed her-eyes on the girl; a look of surprise 
curved her delicate eyebrows when did not 

move to obey hen 


.326 


MAI SI E DERRICK. 


“You must be patient, dear,’’ Maisie spoke very 
tenderly, “and then I believe all will come right. 
My grandfather told me to say that just now he 
does not wish to see you.” 

“Of course that is your version.” Drusilla shrugged 
her shoulders. “ I do not blame you very much 
Maisie, though perhaps so immaculate a person 
ought to have turned out less worldly; but you have 
got your turn, and I suppose you have a right to 
make the best of it — only, I warn you, take care of 
yourself.” Maisie shivered; Drusilla was looking 
spiteful. “I warn you that if once I get hold of my 
father again you will not get a second chance to step 
into my shoes.” 

Maisie did not know howto answer; the interview 
was even more difficult than she had expected. 

Drusilla stamped her foot and turned round on 
her with angry eyes. 

“Why do you not speak? You mean, dumb crea- 
ture; you take away my father, and then my lover, 
and you expect me to be friendly, and to forgive 
you ! As to Luke Stanmore, you are welcome to 
such a starched Puritan ; but my father is another 
matter. I could strike you, you demure sneak, for 
the way in which you have wheedled him, if I did 
not despise you too much.” 

Maisie rose. 

“I am sorry you will not see things as they really 
are,” she said; “I am sure if you will only trust to 
time, my grandfather will soften.” 


AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. 32*7 

Drusilla looked at her in silence; at last she 
sighed. 

'‘I wish I could believe in you,” she said bitterly; 
“I did when we were together at Yardon; I can’t 
now, though. I was an innocent, trusting child in 
those days; now I know that things were not what 
they seemed to me then ; my husband has not 
behaved well, but he has taught me a great deal of 
wisdom. I shall never believe in anyone again ; 
never. I thought you a fool in those days, Maisie; 
but I thought, too, that you were almost an angel — 
but I was a fool, not you ; you were not at all 
angel-like; you were only on the look-out for your 
grandfather’s leavings.” 

'‘You are unjust, but I do not believe you really 
mean what you say.” 

“Do I not? I will tell you something else; ah, 
yes ! something you may find harder to digest, you 
sweet, innocent cuckoo. Do you suppose for an 
instant that Luke Stanmore would have thought of 
you again, if he had not found out you are to have 
my father’s money?” 

Maisie rose and began to walk toward the house; 
she could hardly believe that this virago could be 
Drusilla, and then her pity held her back. 

“I had to give you that message sorely against 
my will ; will you tell me what I am to say to your 
father in answer?” 

Drusilla was silent ; she was already sorry for her 
outbur3t of temper* Her sharp wits told hqr that 


MAISIE DERRICK. 


328 

it would be far wiser to have Maisie for a friend as 
long as the girl was in favor with her grandfather. 
Stanmore’s repulse when she met him just now on 
the hill had made her hate the girl as the cause of 
it, but she told herself it was worse than foolish to 
show this dislike ; she smiled and looked up at Maisie. 

am hot and tired, and naturally I feel ill-used 
that my father will not see me. I thought he was 
so large minded ; I hoped he would forgive and for- 
get. Never mind, I will take your advice, if you 
really think he is so hard-hearted and that he will 
not see me.” She gave Maisie a lovely smile, and 
looked beseeching. '‘You can say that I only want 
to see him and to hear him say, ‘I forgive you.’ 
Do go to him at once, Maisie; I will wait here. If 
he consents you will come and fetch me; if you do 
not come back I shall understand that he has no 
wish to forgive me, though I am his child.” She 
had crossed the walk, and she stood under the 
windows while she spoke. 

It seemed to Maisie that Drusilla had raised her 
voice on the chance that her father might hear 
through one of the open windows. 

“I hope I shall have to come back,” said Maisie 
brightly, and she went into the house. 

Drusilla’s smile changed into a scowl. 

“No, you don’t, you hateful hypocrite. I would 
rather be worse than I am — an honest sinner — than 
like Maisie. I felt as if I must strangle her if she 
stayed five minutes longer. I’ll go back to Boyd; 
at any rate he does not pretend to be good, and he 


AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR, 


329 

does not ask me to be good either. Yes, I’ll go 
back to him.” 

Later in the afternoon, when the heat had 
lessened, Mr. Yardon and Maisie were driving 
through the lovely Prattigau to Klosters. 

For a long time there was perfect silence between 
the fellow-travelers. Indeed, her grandfather had 
not spoken to Maisie since she took him Drusilla’s 
message ; then he had answered : 

“I wish you to be ready to start for Klosters in 
an hour. I will see after everything.” 

They had been driving for some time, and then 
Mr. Yardon said abruptly: 

“I am glad that poor thing had grace enough to 
go off as she did ; I should not have seen her if she 
had stayed ; but I am glad she went. He sighed. 
'‘Some day,” he said, “I will tell you the story of 
my second marriage; it was a folly repented of 
almost as soon as it was accomplished, and, like 
every other folly that a man commits, it has 
brought bitter consequences, and those not only on 
the chief offender.” He smiled, and looked at 
Maisie. “Now, young woman, I observe that you 
have inherited your grandfather’s strong will ; do 
not be too severe on that poor fellow, Stanmore. 
We owe him some amends for all he has had to 
suffer, don’t we?” 

Maisie smiled, and put her hand lovingly into her 
grandfather’s. “Perhaps we do,” she said. 


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